


Name and Soul

by Decepticonsensual



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Found Family, Gen, Pre Plo/Wolffe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 46,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: All in all, Boba Fett only tries to kill him four times during their first few weeks as a family. It is, Plo Koon thinks, a marker of progress.An AU following Clone Wars episode 2.22 ("Lethal Trackdown").  After falling in with some of his late father's bounty hunter friends, and orchestrating an attack aimed at killing Jedi Master Mace Windu, Boba Fett was caught by Master Plo Koon and brought back to Coruscant to face justice for his crimes.  At least, that was the plan.  But Plo Koon never met a stray he didn't want to help, and he manages to persuade a reluctant Jedi Council that jail is the last thing a lost child like Boba needs.And if that means Plo has to raise a traumatised eleven-year-old bounty hunter all by himself to be an upstanding member of society, then that's exactly what he'll do.  Look out, universe.  Plo Koon has cocoa and fluffy blankets, and he's not afraid to use them.
Relationships: Plo Koon & Boba Fett
Comments: 372
Kudos: 654





	1. Chapter 1

All in all, Boba Fett only tries to kill him four times during their first few weeks as a family. It is, Plo Koon thinks, a marker of progress.

And really, only the first attempt has any genuine bite to it. On the child’s first night in his new home, Boba – in a fit of rage and grief, abandoned by the woman who was one of his last links to his father, forced to live with some _Jedi,_ with some _friend_ of the man who murdered his father in front of him – picks up a knife from the block in the kitchen and runs at Plo with it. Plo uses the Force to freeze Boba in place and pluck the knife from him, thinking it will be gentler that way than if he were to try and physically tackle the boy.

It’s the wrong response. Boba thrashes and yells as if the Force restraint is burning his skin. Startled, Plo drops his hold.

“Don’t you use that filthy kriffing magic on me!” Boba snarls. “Don’t you – don’t –”

He staggers a step forward, two, and then crumples to the kitchen tile. Plo crouches nearby. Boba is curled into a ball, his face hidden against his knees and, in the sudden silence, the little, choking sounds of a child desperately holding back tears are terribly loud.

Plo resists the urge to open his arms; he doesn’t know how Boba would take that right now.

“I will not hurt you,” he says quietly, after Boba stills. For a single, conflicted moment, Plo wonders if he should have said that in a more politic way – _I am not here to hurt you; I do not want to hurt you._ Can he truly promise that, whatever the circumstances, he _will not_ hurt this young man, who ten minutes ago was trying to kill him?

No sooner does he ask the question, though, than he knows the answer. Hurting Boba is simply not an option. Everything else, Plo’s own safety included, is second to that.

Boba is silent, but the anger is coming off him in waves – rage, curdling to resentment. Even without the skin-to-skin contact that would enable his native telepathy, Plo can _taste_ the sourness of that resentment in the back of his throat. He can’t feel the grief that must accompany it, but he knows it must be there, underneath. If they aren’t careful, it will eat the child alive.

“Understand me, _jet_ _ii_ _,_ ” Boba hisses finally. “I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to kill that _demagolka_ Windu for what he did. You can’t stop me forever.”

They stay like that, on the floor, just out of one another’s reach, for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo makes home renovation plans. Boba tests the boundaries.

The next morning, Plo foregoes his usual meditation, and runs through an abbreviated version of his practice forms, keeping an ear out the entire time for any sign of Boba stirring in the living room. He feels a pang at having made Boba sleep on the sofa; Plo would have readily given the child his own bed, and spread out an exercise mat in the corner of the living room for himself, but his bedroom is hermetically sealed and the environmental controls set to Dorin norms. Unless Boba can somehow learn to breathe helium, the sofa will have to do for now. Plo’s first order of business today will be to see what can be done about larger quarters within the Temple for himself and his new charge. And a few sets of students’ robes in Boba’s size, and a stock of food more suitable to human nutritional needs… and then arrangements will need to be made for schooling, considering that Boba can hardly be thrown in with a clutch of defenceless Jedi younglings...

He sighs, stripping off his sleep tunic and stepping into the fresher. The Council may not be exactly amenable to Plo turning up with a laundry list of demands this morning. The arguments from yesterday’s extended session are still ringing in his ears. Certain voices – Yoda’s among them – fought hard against the very idea of taking Boba in. But Plo couldn’t let a child, however misguided, be locked up like a hardened criminal.

In the end, it was Mace they turned to. It was Mace, after all, whom Boba had blown up an entire ship to try and kill. And it was Mace who shocked them all by saying, “I agree with Master Plo. While I have my doubts that the child can be recovered, if there is a chance, we should not turn our backs on one so young.”

Which was when he issued his sole condition: Boba would be Plo’s responsibility.

There might, Plo reflected, be some hint of _teaching him a lesson_ in that. At its core, however, it’s something much simpler. Mace trusts him.

Simpler and harder to bear, in its way.

He finishes washing and dressing, and fits his filter mask and goggles just as a soft chime sounds from the door. Plo goes through to the living room to answer it, accepting a tray from a Temple servant with thanks. He assumed that Boba was still asleep – Plo’s quarters have been almost eerily silent this morning – but as he sets the tray down on a low table beside the sofa, Plo can make out a pair of golden-brown eyes watching him from within a tangled nest of blankets.

“Good morning,” Plo tells him. He was half-expecting Boba to lunge for him again as soon as he got in range, but, for better or worse, the boy seems to just be watching. Plo moves a discreet distance away to see what will happen.

It takes some time, but sure enough, a skinny forearm shoots out and grabs at a piece of fruit on the tray, pulling it back inside the blanket nest. There is a pause; and then when Plo doesn’t intervene to stop him, Boba proceeds to snag the bread next to it, the bowl of grains, the rest of the fruit. Breathless slurping and munching sounds filter out from the blankets. Tilting his head, Plo can see Boba, desperately trying to cram as much food in his mouth as he can at once. Plo wonders just how hungry he’s been, and for how long.

“ _Udesii, ad’ika,_ ” he says softly. _Easy, little one._ Those were some of the first snatches of Mando’a Plo taught himself, back when he was first assigned to lead the 104th; he watched the way some of the veteran clone troopers would talk down the most frightened of the shinies, and wanted to make sure he could do the same.

Boba’s eyes widen at hearing the Mandalorian language, and then narrow. Still, the pace of his chewing slows, until he’s no longer on the brink of making himself sick. He glares at Plo over the half a shuura fruit in his hand.

“Just gonna watch me eat, then?”

“I was about to make myself some tea,” Plo says, aware it’s not exactly an answer. “Would you like some?”

Boba doesn’t reply. Plo turns to the counter of the small kitchenette, keeping his hearing attuned towards the living room as he sets out the tea, the bowl, the whisk. If Boba is going to make another attempt to attack him, Plo wants enough forewarning that he can try and restrain the boy without use of the Force, since that upsets him so badly.

The first thing he actually hears, though, is the quiet beeps of a touchpad and then the _bloop_ of mechanical denial, followed by muffled swearing.

“I’m afraid it’s locked,” he says without looking over at the front door. “But your stealth is impressive.”

Boba swears again, not bothering to muffle it this time, and smacks the touchpad by the door, making it give out an offended _breeep._ “What if the – the Temple was on fire or something, and you weren’t here to let me out?”

“In an emergency, the system would let you out – and if the system was damaged by the fire, the door would open automatically.” Plo pauses. “Kindly don’t set the Temple on fire.”

“Kriff you,” Boba tells him without much heat. Plo steals a glance, and sees him leaning close to study the locking mechanism, then taking a step back to survey the whole of the door. After a moment, Boba crosses to the narrow, recessed windows and peers down, no doubt calculating his chances of escaping that way. Given that they’re so many storeys up, it’s vanishingly unlikely even if Boba could get through the transparisteel. The Jedi Temple was always designed to be a place of welcome, but also a fortress, housing the last bastion of the Republic’s defence.

Boba nevertheless folds himself up and squeezes onto the windowsill, and sits with his arms wrapped around his knees, gazing out. He’s showing a marked preference for enclosed spaces. Plo idly thinks that he could put a cushion there to make a kind of window seat for the boy. Maybe even a curtain to separate it from the rest of their quarters – a place Boba can hide away, at least until he has a room of his own.

Plo slides a metal straw into one cup of tea, and takes the other to Boba, who looks down at it and curls his lip. Undeterred, Plo sets it beside the sofa next to the remains of breakfast.

He leans on the back of the sofa to sip his own tea. “I shall be at meetings for most of the day, but I will arrange to have something sent up for lunch. You’re welcome to use the holocaster if there’s anything you’d like to watch, or there are books if you’d prefer.” Plo made a point of loading up a selection of fiction, including some stories he particularly liked as a child, onto a datapad last night; sleep was eluding him, anyway. Thinking about it in the cold light of day, though, he’s second-guessing his choices. The kinds of adventure fiction that kept a Kel Dor youngster breathlessly entertained as he lay safe and warm in his dormitory at the Jedi Temple may hold little appeal for a child who’s actually fought for his life. Seen death. _Caused_ death.

The morning light turns Boba’s irises a vivid shade of gold, as his eyes track the movement of ships taking off in the distance.

Plo finishes his tea in silence, and leaves Boba’s on the side table. When he returns in the afternoon, just to check on the boy, he finds that the tea has been drunk, and the rest of breakfast has been polished off.

And Boba is nowhere to be found.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boba makes a... friend. Yeah. We'll go with "friend".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: For panic over a child disappearing.
> 
> There are shades of pre-Plo/Wolffe here if you squint - whether it's reciprocal, or will come to anything, we'll have to see...

A cold stab of panic hits Plo right in the heart.

He stills, letting out a breath. Allows himself to feel the familiar hum of the living Force moving through him. Fear will do Boba no good right now. Besides, getting out of Plo’s private quarters and actually getting out of the Jedi Temple complex are two very different matters. The last thing Plo should do is panic and raise the alarm, leading to the poor child being hunted like a fugitive through the halls of the very place Plo wants him to feel safe.

He sensed Boba’s absence immediately upon entering, but he searches their quarters anyway; it’s a quick enough process, as Plo doesn’t have all that much in the way of furniture and there are few places to hide. Living room and kitchenette, guest bathroom, Plo’s sealed bedroom and bathroom just in case. The whole time, he runs through in his mind all the places Boba might have tried to go. Weapons vault? No, he wouldn’t know where to find it, and surely even Boba doesn’t imagine he can fight his way through a building full of Jedi. Landing pad? Probably the quickest way to get far out of Plo’s reach, if Boba can sneak onto a transport, but risky. It’s more likely he’ll try to get out of the compound entirely and vanish into the Coruscant underworld. Now: if he were Boba, would he attempt to bluff his way out the main gates? Or look for a back way out – and if so, where –

It’s at that moment Plo’s comm pings.

“ _General Plo? I think we’ve got something here that belongs to you.”_

***

What happened – as Plo learns when he finally hears the full story – was this.

Commander Wolffe was walking down a corridor, minding his own business.

( _“Indeed, Commander? I don’t recall you having any assignments that would take you to the Temple today.”_ )

Commander Wolffe was walking down a corridor, _off duty_ , minding his own business.

( _“You just happened to be spending your off duty hours in the Temple, around the corner from my quarters? I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned_ _about your_ _workaholism_ _.”_ )

Commander Wolffe was walking down a corridor because his stubborn, soft-hearted general had just taken in a miniature terror who’d already blown up an entire Republic cruiser, been party to shooting a hostage in cold blood, and almost succeeded in murdering another Jedi master, and Wolffe didn’t trust the kid a single inch, and so he and the rest of the Wolfpack were taking it in turns to spend their off hours patrolling within shouting distance of the general’s quarters, can I get on with the kriffing story now, _sir_?

( _“Of course. My apologies, Wolffe.”_ )

Commander Wolffe was walking down a corridor, and he heard yelling from around the corner, about two seconds before something very fast plowed into him at about chest-height.

Wolffe’s hands darted out and caught his assailant on instinct as they practically bounced off his armour. He found himself holding Boba Fett by the shoulders.

While Wolffe knew the boy by sight – he’d made sure of that, studying his face and history in detail as soon as word came down of the Council’s decision regarding the kid – General Plo had been careful to keep Wolffe and his men apart from Boba, at least while he adjusted to his new home. After all, they didn’t know how Boba felt about the existence of an army of clones of Jango Fett, let alone about the prospect of actually living surrounded by men with his father’s face. Such constant reminders of the man he’d lost might be a comfort, or they might only deepen his grief – or he might hate the clones for wearing Jango’s likeness and living, when Jango was gone.

As it turned out, the reaction was nothing either Plo or Wolffe had anticipated. Boba stepped backwards, looked the commander up and down critically, and said, “You’re Wolffe, right? I remember you.”

Wolffe frowned. “What do you mean, you remember me? I wasn’t there when General Plo brought you in.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Nah. I mean, from before. You were one of the first batch, weren’t you? I wasn’t allowed down on the training levels, but I watched you all, sometimes.”

Wolffe straight-up gaped at the kid. His mind immediately went racing back to Kamino: Jango Fett’s quarters, set high in one of the towers, with views on one side out over the endless water, and on the other, windows overlooking the training centre. Fett had often kept an eye on them from above. It was one of the reasons he’d always seemed to know everything that went on, and had been able to swoop down suddenly to correct a sparring form, tell off a cadet for poor weapons safety, or praise a particularly well-executed manoeuvre. And now that Wolffe thought back, it hadn’t just been Fett.

He could remember, now, a small face so like his own and his brothers’, pressed against the glass. He could even remember Cody asking once (when they were all so little, not much bigger than Boba was then, even though Wolffe and the other clones were maturing twice as fast) why the little _vod_ in the window never came down to train with them. The Kaminoans had simply blown past the question, as they had tended to do whenever their creations asked something outside of the training programme.

Wolffe _did_ remember Boba.

And it was at that moment that a serving droid careened around the corner, clutching the remains of a lunch tray; it appeared to be wearing half the contents sprayed haphazardly over its chassis. It pointed at Boba, and let out a series of indignant chirps and whistles.

“Lemme guess,” said Wolffe. “You waited for lunch to be delivered, then you bum rushed the server and made a break for it?”

Boba didn’t look especially repentant.

After a moment, Wolffe raised his voice to address the droid. “Hey, thanks; I’ve got it from here.”

The droid threw its free hand up in the air and, with a last string of chirps that Wolffe imagined translated to something about stupid organics, turned and vanished down the hall.

“So what now?” Boba’s eyes hardened. “You sticking me back in that room?”

Wolffe _did_ have the general’s door codes, in case of emergency, but the thought of just locking Boba back in and leaving him made Wolffe itch – especially if this was how easily the kid could get out. Kriff, he might try and rush _Plo_ next time.

( _“It’s funny you should say that, Commander – but that’s a story for another time. Please continue.”_ )

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t,” he instructed, eyes narrowed, stalling.

He wasn’t prepared for Boba to say quietly, “Please, just – let me stay for a little bit? You knew my dad.”

Wolffe crouched down to look Boba in the eye. He knew his own eyes could be unsettling, the one golden-brown and the other a cybernetic white, and he used that to his full advantage, raking his gaze over every inch of the boy’s face. He came away absolutely certain this was a ploy of some kind. Well, mostly certain. Seventy percent. At least.

He sighed. “Well, guess you didn’t get any lunch after all that. You hungry?”

***

“And we came here, and I commed you,” Wolffe finishes. “Well, gave it a little time – I wanted to wait until you were out of meetings first.” He gives Plo an assessing look. “Hope we didn’t worry you.”

“I rather suspect,” Plo answers, watching Boba across the table, “that that will be a fairly constant state for some time.”

They’re all sitting in the large, airy canteen, built to serve the Temple staff and the clone troopers who work on site, as well as the Jedi. When Plo entered, Boba was sandwiched between Sinker and Boost, listening enraptured to some story Boost was telling him (complete with extravagant explosion hand gestures). The boy wasn’t smiling, exactly, but his eyes were… clear, in a way Plo had never seen them. Just for that moment, free of rage, free of pain.

A small ache started somewhere under Plo’s breastbone.

The moment Boba spotted Plo, however, his entire demeanour changed. Thunderclouds settled over his expression, and he slouched back in his seat, arms folded, and fixed the Jedi master with a look that could peel paint.

He’s been intermittently glaring in Plo’s direction since, while Wolffe has quietly been filling Plo in. Meanwhile, Sinker’s taken over relating tales from their training days.

“So Jango fishes the three of us out, and we’re just standing there in the shuttle, dripping like a clutch of drowned rats,” he grins. “And Boost here’s got a face like a slapped – erm, a face like he’s just been slapped, ’cause he’s _sure_ his lucky game piece is at the bottom of the ocean. And Jango starts pacing back in forth in front of us, telling us how stupid we’ve been, just tearing strips off us… but about halfway through, I realise he’s had one hand behind his back the whole time. I kind of sneak a look over, and Comet’s seen it, too. Boost, he’s still staring at his boots, he hasn’t noticed anything. Then when the shuttle lands, Jango tells us to go get changed, and he starts to walk away. And then he turns around, quick as a slitherette, and gives us this smile, and tosses that damn game piece right at Boost’s head.” Sinker shakes his own head ruefully. “Still can’t work out when he even rescued it.”

Boba’s eyes are hungry, fixed on Sinker.

“What kind of man was he?” Plo asks Wolffe softly. “Jango Fett?”

Wolffe pauses to take a pull from his mug of caf. Unfortunately, Plo’s question happens to coincide with a pause in Sinker’s story, and Boba hears it, his head snapping around to Plo and Wolffe.

“He was...” Wolffe catches Boba’s eye, and the intensity of that stare makes him stumble. “He was – strict, but a good teacher. Knew his stuff. He was never cruel to us. He never – some of the stuff the Kaminoans – he wouldn’t –” Wolffe’s jaw clenches, and he addresses the next sentence directly to his caf, which he’s now gripping so hard the mug creaks. “He was a good man.”

Boba’s eyes are too bright for a second, until he turns abruptly away in his chair and stares stubbornly at the floor.

Plo puts a hand on Wolffe’s shoulder. Sinker’s started teasing Boost again, asking whether falling into the Kaminoan ocean as a cadet was the last proper bath he had; Boost shoves him playfully, but carefully, both mindful of Boba sitting between them.

“I’ve never known you to talk about Jango,” Plo says, close to Wolffe’s ear this time. “Any of you.”

“Yeah, well. After Geonosis, the long-necks made it pretty clear Jango hadn’t been a friend of the Jedi, and told us our new generals wouldn’t want to hear it.” Wolffe shifts a little closer under Plo’s touch. “It’s fine.”  
  


“He was important to you. I would never want you to stop yourselves from reminiscing on my account.”

That gets a small, wry smile out of Wolffe. “I know, General.”

“Good.” Plo squeezes his shoulder, and lets go. “I’m glad Boba met you today, for all it’s sooner than I intended. But I will set official guards, in case he feels the need to go wandering again; I was foolish not to do so before this.”

“With all due respect, sir, the hell you will. The Wolfpack isn’t going anywhere while you’re still on Coruscant, and there are enough of us that someone can be watching your back all the time, and that still gives us enough time for R&R. Don’t need a bunch of jumped-up shinies in fancy guard colours to look after _my_ general.”

Plo tilts his head and studies Wolffe for a second, wondering if the man intended that _my_ to sound the way it did. Wolffe is meeting his eye steadily (as steadily as possible through Plo’s goggles, at least), so perhaps not.

“Thank you,” Plo says, and then, glancing across the table at Boba, “Wish me luck.”

Wolffe salutes lazily and grins. “K’oyacyi.” _Stay alive._

“Not quite what I had in mind, but I’ll take it.”

Boba looks daggers at Plo, of course, when the latter tells him it’s time to go, but he follows quietly enough. Neither says anything more, until they reach the door of Plo’s quarters and Boba shoots Plo a smirk.

“Really still think this is gonna hold me?” he asks.

“I don’t intend it to – not forever. This isn’t a prison, Boba.” Plo crouches down. “I just need to know that you’ll return home safely.”

The smile falls off Boba’s face.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend like you care about me. You’re a shitty liar.”

And he storms through the open door, clambering up to the windowsill and curling himself into a ball with his back to the room.

Plo lets out a long breath and rests his forehead against the doorframe for a moment, before getting up. Perhaps things would be better if he could just manage to come up with some kind of easy assurance Boba would believe. Ironic, then, that Boba is right about that of all things. Plo’s never been a good liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps microphone* Hi, I'm DC and I've spent waaaay too much time thinking about Jango Fett and what the ten years he spent on Kamino may have looked like. There seems to be a general fandom consensus (bolstered by the EU, I think) that he did impart a lot of Mandalorian culture to the clone troopers, so he must have played a pretty active role in their lives; it must be a VERY odd feeling to hear that your genetic template, who partly raised you, is dead at the hands of one of your new commanders (and it's probably pretty frowned on for you to have an opinion about that).
> 
> Speaking of too much time, I actually did research to confirm that rats are A Thing in the Star Wars universe, because Kamino doesn't seem to have any non-aquatic native wildlife. "Looking like a clutch of drowned aiwhas" doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting the Wolfpack, Boba has... questions. Well. One question in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Explorations of canon death.
> 
> A bit of a shorter, quieter chapter this time, as I realised belatedly that it made more sense dramatically to split this part off into its own chapter rather than keep it as part of the next one.

Boba is mostly silent for the rest of the day.

It’s a different kind of silence, Plo notes – the boy isn’t radiating anger in quite the same way as before. He isn’t being silent _at_ Plo. He’s… thoughtful.

Plo attends the afternoon session of the Council by holo, seated on his bed, so that he can still keep an ear out for Boba trying anything in the living room, but Boba (hopefully) won’t hear any sensitive details of the Council’s discussion through the bedroom door. It’s an uncomfortable contradiction, treating the child as both a ward and an imprisoned enemy. Plo knows it’s necessary for now, but he hopes it won’t have to last too long.

When he emerges, it’s dark out, and Boba has his head down over a datapad.

“What are you reading?” Plo asks, settling himself companionably on a chair nearby. Boba doesn’t answer, which isn’t a surprise. Plo merely turns his attention to his own reading.

It _is_ something of a surprise when, ten minutes later, Boba asks out of nowhere, “Why do they fight for you, when they know what you did?”

Plo sets his datapad down and steeples his claws. Boba isn’t looking at him, but Plo can see the tension in his back, feel every ounce of the boy’s attention craning towards him.

Slowly, Plo begins, “Captain Rex – the commander of the 501st battalion – said to me once that he felt he was part of the most important moment in the history of the Republic, and that he would one day be able to tell his children how he fought to defend it. I believe there are many in the army who feel as he does. Who believe in the Republic, and want to safeguard its future. For many others, it may be that their first loyalty is to their brothers, and they feel that to leave would be to abandon them.” It isn’t a complete answer, he knows; it doesn’t factor in the years those men spent being formed and shaped by the Kaminoans (and, he supposes, by Boba’s father – a thought he doesn’t entirely know how to integrate) to follow and obey the Jedi, before any Jedi now living even knew of their existence. But at the end of the day, his men are still men, not drones. Their choices are their own, and their reasons should be honoured. After a moment, Plo adds gently, “Perhaps this is a question better posed to Commander Wolffe. Or Boost and Sinker. I’m sure any one of them could give you a more meaningful answer than I can.”

“You mean you’ll let me see them again?” The disbelieving rise in the pitch of Boba’s voice makes him sound even younger than he is.

“Indeed, if you like. Tomorrow?”

Boba actually beams at that, and half-turns towards Plo before catching himself. His expression lapses back into a careful neutrality, and he nods.

Plo smiles behind the mask… and then smiles even more broadly, thinking of how Wolffe is going to react to Boba becoming a regular presence in the Wolfpack’s life. ‘ _Stay alive’_ _to you, too, Wolffe_ _._

***

After dinner, Boba spends a bit more time reading before his eyelids start to droop, and Plo makes a discreet exit to give them both some privacy to prepare for bed. As he settles between the sheets, though, Plo catches the sound of a voice in the living room.

He quietly eases towards the bedroom door, ready to spring if there are intruders in his quarters. But it turns out to be Boba’s voice, and only his. After a second, Plo recognises the Mando’a recitation in honour of the dead:

“ _I am still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal._ ”

There’s a pause, and Boba’s voice shakes a little as he intones,

“Jango Fett.”

Plo shuts his eyes. Since the war began, he himself has spoken those words far too many times, followed by the names of far, far too many lost soldiers. In his mind’s eye, he can see them – memorial after memorial, some of the men who were standing beside him at one joining the list of names recited at the next, all blurring together in an unending stream of candlelight.

And those are just the collective ceremonies that immediately follow a death in the field. Plo knows that some of his men, Wolffe among them, recite the names of the dead privately every night – lighting a candle if the opportunity is there; some gathering in small groups of friends, some alone.

Boba, of course, has no choice in that.

On impulse, Plo rests a hand on the closed door, as if he could reach through it. He keeps his voice soft. Granted, without the filter on to magnify his voice, it’s vanishingly unlikely Plo could be heard through the door even if he shouted, but he’s wary of intruding even so.

“ _I am still alive, but you are dead..._ ”

The recitation comes easily; the list of the dead from his own battalion, easier still. Those names are never far from his mind.

Plo hesitates before adding a final name.

“Jango Fett,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the Mandalorian recitation for the dead is canon, I've taken some minor liberties with the trappings of it, because I was struggling to find a good source on what (if anything) goes into the ritual besides the words.
> 
> My research WAS able to convince me, however, that if I ever start a metal band, I'm totally calling it Mandalorian Death Ritual.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo starts to train his new charge. It's not what Boba expected. (The results aren't exactly what Plo expected, either.)
> 
> In which Boba is a miniature badass, Wolffe has Concerns, and Plo discovers emojis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a glossary at the end will continue to be updated; feel free to flag if there's a word I've missed.

The next morning, after breakfast – Boba still tends to hole up with his food where he can’t easily be reached, but at least he no longer gulps it down like it’s going to be taken away from him – Plo says, “Today, we will be resuming your education.”

Boba scowls. “Kriff that. My _dad_ taught me what I need. I don’t need some _jetii_ bullshit education.”

“Actually, I agree with you.” At Boba’s suspicious squint, Plo elaborates, “It wouldn’t be appropriate to treat you exactly as though you were a Jedi youngling, when you are not. My intention is to build on what your father already taught you, not replace it.” Which will require a thorough assessment, at some point, of what Boba _has_ learned… but that can wait. “But perhaps it’s best if we start with a little practice before adding anything new. Come with me, please.”

Boba stays quiet as they walk through the halls of the Temple, his eyes darting from side to side – mapping escape routes, Plo imagines. The route Plo takes him on is through a different part of the Temple than he will have seen yesterday, winding down several floors to a long, empty corridor on the north side of the building. Plo chose this location deliberately; the rooms are older and a bit shabbier, but for the same reason, it’s not nearly as popular with Masters teaching classes.

He keys open one of the doors, and just for a fraction of a second, Boba’s eyes widen.

The training room is airy and open, taken up mostly with a selection of floor mats. A rack of light staffs and blunted practice weapons lines the far wall. There are perhaps a dozen clone troopers scattered around the room, warming up, stretching, chatting – a few of them have begun to spar in pairs.

“What’s this?” Boba asks in a low voice.

“Were you expecting a screen, and a quiz on galactic history?” Plo tilts his head and gives the boy a smile. “Your education has included combat training, has it not?”

“ _Obviously,_ but – Wait, you _want_ me to keep learning how to fight?”

“I do.” Eventually. For today, Plo wants Boba to have the opportunity to get out of their quarters and at least move around. Many times he’s run combat drills with one or another of his padawans, over and over, when they were feeling frustrated or homesick or heartsick, just as his master, Tyvokka, used to do for him. At the very least, it can’t hurt. “Do you?”

Boba narrows his eyes and looks like he’s preparing to answer, but meanwhile, the troopers seem to have caught sight of them both, because the chatter in the room abruptly dies away.

Plo was specific when he asked Wolffe to get a few of the men together to train with them this morning: brothers from the 104th only, reasonably level-headed types, and no one who had a close friend aboard the _Endurance._ Still, Boba’s presence is drawing suspicious looks, some distinctly hostile. A few of the clones begin to mutter among themselves.

Boba swallows hard.

Then Sinker, towards the back of the room, raises a hand and calls out evenly, “All right, _vod’ika_?”

Just like that, the tension dissolves. Hearing their trusted sergeant greet the boy as _little brother_ seems to have reassured the men; or perhaps, more than that, it’s given them a template for Boba’s presence here, for understanding how he fits in. They go back to talking and laughing as they warm up, and while there are still suspicious glances from some of the clones, one or two others flash brief smiles in Boba’s direction. _Thank the Force for Sinker,_ Plo thinks, as he leads Boba across the room. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

Sinker comes to attention. “General.”

“At ease. Do you think you could guide Boba here through a few of our warm-up drills?”

“Of course, sir.” Sinker makes a show of looking Boba up and down. “Reckon you can handle the exercises we’d give a cadet your age?”

“Reckon I could run circles around them,” Boba shoots back, but without any of his usual venom. He sounds almost eager.

As Sinker leads Boba off to one of the mats, Plo finds Wolffe leaning against a nearby wall, and settles in next to him to watch. “Do you suppose I should point out to Sinker that Boba is technically _his_ age?”

“Mmmf.” Wolffe’s smile is sharp, more of a flash of tooth than a true smile. “I wouldn’t, sir. Don’t want to make it any harder than it is to remember that the kid is still a kid. Which is pretty much the only reason we’ve all gone so soft on him. You included, I imagine.”

Plo’s gaze tracks Sinker and Boba as they finish stretching and start to move through some basic defensive forms. “Not the only reason,” he replies. “I saw a child, yes – a lost child, grieving, manipulated and abandoned by those around him. And remorseful for what he’d done. To you and your brothers, at the very least, if not for what he’d tried to do to Master Windu. And I saw a moment, beyond which he might well be lost forever.” He shakes himself. “You think I’ve been foolish.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

The sudden huskiness of Wolffe’s voice startles Plo, and he turns, only to find Wolffe carefully not looking at him. “Oh?” he asks softly.

Wolffe crosses his arms, looking uncharacteristically awkward, and doesn’t answer the implied question. “I’m just saying, sir, this is dangerous territory. And not just for the reasons you think.” The stubborn jut of his jaw suddenly and acutely reminds Plo of Boba. “Everything in my brain is yelling at me that that kid is one of my brothers, and I’m supposed to protect him. Any clone is gonna feel the same. But the thing is, he’s _not._ He wasn’t trained as one of us; he’s got no loyalty to the _vode._ That gives him one hell of a weapon against us. If it makes one of us hesitate at the wrong moment…”

Plo watches Sinker turn to face Boba, and drop into a combat stance. Boba mirrors him. There’s an easy power to the boy’s movements that serves as a reminder: Boba is _not_ a cadet, with only a scant few years of standardised training under his belt. He’s Jango Fett’s heir, a fully-fledged bounty hunter in his own right.

And a lost child, still.

“Your point is well taken,” Plo murmurs. “I will do everything I can to make sure, if worst comes to worst, you and your brothers aren’t placed in a position where the choice is between Boba’s safety and your own. Boba is my responsibility.”

“Still not totally up to speed on how the whole _being bodyguarded_ thing works, are you, sir?” Wolffe asks, one side of his mouth quirking up wryly for a second.

Plo laughs quietly, and the two of them watch the sergeant and the kid spar in companionable silence. Sinker is pulling his punches, of course, as he would if he were sparring with a cadet. It surprises Plo a little more when he realises that Boba is, as well. Perhaps the boy is only trying to downplay what he’s capable of – or perhaps he’s simply wary of really hurting a clone in a room full of clones, not all of them as friendly as Sinker. Still. Interesting.

Wolffe walks off after a while to go correct another trooper’s form, and Plo turns to business, as well, heading over to where Warthog is having a go at the heavy bag to ask how the man’s shoulder injury is healing. One conversation leads into another, and checking on his troops’ health transitions into Plo demonstrating a few of the stretches the Jedi healers recommend, and from there to discussing armour improvements (there’s talk of rolling out new gauntlets with better flexibility). When Plo lifts his head, some time later, he notices that Sinker and Boba are taking a break from sparring. The two are sitting with their backs against the nearest wall, swigging water and having what appears to be a very earnest conversation. Or rather, Sinker looks earnest; Boba’s brow is furrowed, and he’s staring at the water bottle as he turns it in his hands.

“So he looks right at me,” Sinker is saying, “and the weird thing was, didn’t matter that he had his goggles and I had my bucket on; didn’t matter that we were in the pitch black of space, with only a little reflected light from the nearest planet to see by. At that moment, I could swear he was staring me dead in the eye. And he said, ‘Why are you so sure no one’s coming?’ and I said, well, we’re clones, we’re meant to be expendable, you know? And then he just goes, ‘ _Not to me_.’” Sinker catches sight of Plo at that moment, and scrambles to his feet. “General! Ah, we were just – that is, Boba here had a question –”

“I’m aware.” Plo realises he’s staring. He had no idea Sinker’s answer to the question of _why do you fight_ was going to be specific to _him._ Sinker is starting to look worried that he’s offended his general, so Plo moves to clap a warm hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Sinker.” The sergeant lets out a quiet breath, and smiles, a little shyly. Plo squeezes his shoulder, and hopes that Sinker can hear the implied, _For caring about Boba. For th_ _is_ _. For everything._

After a long moment, Plo releases Sinker with a final pat on the back, and glances at Boba, who’s looking remarkably… _disconcerted_ by this new information. “I think that’s enough for a first session,” Plo says, reaching a hand down to help him up. Boba looks at it and hesitates, but ultimately gets to his feet on his own, without taking it.

On the way back to their quarters, Plo asks, “Did Sergeant Sinker answer your question to your satisfaction?”

Boba frowns. “I… don’t know,” he says frankly.

That in itself feels like an encouraging sign. “Well, you’ll see him again tomorrow. Keep asking questions, Boba.”

***

After letting Boba back into their rooms, Plo stops by the Temple’s stores to pick a few items up, based on an idea he had last night. He takes care to hide them in his sleeve; Boba barely glances up from his datapad when Plo returns, but the boy’s sharp eyes miss little.

Once he’s in the privacy of his bedroom, Plo takes out a bit of brightly-coloured paper and wraps the rest of his spoils inside it. Then he writes a note to Boba to accompany it. _I trust… you won’t…_

When he eventually sets the pen down, he taps his claws together and contemplates whether his wording might come across as too stern. It took his own troops a little time to get used to his sense of humour, after all, and they were far more inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt to begin with. Perhaps it would be better to include one of those little symbols at the end that Boost is always inserting into his written comm messages.

And so, that evening, when Boba emerges from the bathroom ready for bed, he finds a the bright package waiting on the windowsill for him. The note reads:

_I trust you won’t try and set the Temple on fire. :)_

_\- Plo Koon_

Inside are a lighter and a set of memorial candles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo comes to understand Boba a little better, as Boba tries to come to grips with everything around him - but the re-emergence of a ghost from Boba’s past threatens to derail all of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may slightly condense certain events in season 3 of The Clone Wars, although I believe the timeline is still consistent with what we see in canon. Just - certain characters may have had a very eventful past couple of weeks, is all I'm saying. :)

In the days that follow, there are two things Plo considers hopeful signs. The first is that Boba does not, in fact, set the Temple on fire.

(This is possibly because he knows Plo would be expecting it, but Plo will take what he can get.)

The second is that Boba does keep asking questions. He asks them of Sinker and Boost, at first, then the rest of the Wolfpack as he gets to know them in the course of his training sessions. (Plo is still keeping Boba away from the firing range – that’s a step too far at the moment, and anyway all reports suggest he doesn’t exactly need the practice – but at least once a day, he makes sure Boba has the chance to exhaust himself in sparring or wrestling with the clones.) And, after a day or two, he starts asking them of Plo.

***

Out of the blue, in Mando’a, while Boba is eating dinner and Plo is keeping him company: “ _How come you speak Mando’a?_ ”

Plo answers in the same language, “ _Because my Pack does._ ” The word for ‘pack’ in Mando’a, as in Standard, is different from the word for ‘squad’ or ‘unit’, and the little spark of surprise in Boba’s eyes show that he’s registered that distinction. He chews thoughtfully for a moment.

“ _Do all Jedi speak it?”_

“ _Some. Not all Jedi have command of a battalion.”_ That’s glossing over the truth a little. Both those things are accurate, but Plo is well aware that not every Jedi who _does_ command a battalion has bothered to learn the language of their troops. There are certainly those who do: Skywalker’s Mando’a is quite good, he believes, and Obi-Wan and Master Secura are downright fluent. Little ’Soka has made a particular point of learning; he’s heard her chattering away with Captain Rex as if she’s a native speaker. Plo feels the familiar warm pulse of pride as he thinks of it. But some of the other generals, Jedi and not…

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, but Boba reads between the lines, and his voice is dripping venom as he asks in Standard, “And I bet some don’t bother, because clones are just _expendable,_ aren’t we?”

Plo makes himself breathe. Makes himself recite that anger leads to hate, and hate to suffering. Makes himself answer in Mando’a, hoping the additional seconds of thought it takes to get the words right will help cool them. Even then, he can hear the undercurrent of anger crackling through his voice like lightning. “ _No person is expendable, Boba. How we are born doesn’t matter. Your life is precious; you are_ never _expendable.”_

And oh, this rage is a familiar one, too – because how could any commander have so little respect for the lives in entrusted to them, how _dare_ someone (so many someones, it must have been so many over the years) make Sinker feel like his life wasn’t worth the effort of rescue, how _dare_ anyone think for a moment that Boba is worth any less than –

Boba’s eyes are wide, and it’s like a bucket of cold water over Plo. He quickly adds, “Forgive me. I’m not angry at _you._ ”

“No, I know.” And he doesn’t sound afraid – shocked, maybe, but not afraid. “You’re – you’re actually pissed that people think that. About clones.”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”  
  


Boba crosses his arms and looks at Plo like he’s just asked a phenomenally stupid question.

“Right.” Plo smiles a little ruefully.

Boba pushes his food around the plate in silence for a while. Finally, he says in a subdued voice, “They speak it because of my dad, you know. He’s the one who taught them.”

“Yes.”

“He wouldn’t have bothered if he didn’t think they were worth something, too. If it was just about giving the _jetii_ some army. He wouldn’t have cared.”

Plo makes a small hum of agreement, but he doesn’t think this conversation is really for his benefit. Boba seems to be working through something in his head.

It occurs to Plo to wonder, not for the first time, how much Jango told his son about the tangle of intrigue behind the construction of the clone army. It also occurs to him – very much for the first time – to wonder why Jango _did_ stick around to train his clones. Certainly, he was paid well. But as far as Plo can tell, the man was close to revered in bounty-hunting circles. He can’t have lacked for work.

Boba’s right. Whatever this meant to Jango, it must have been more than a meal ticket.

After a while, Plo offers, gently, “The _vode_ all remember him with great fondness.”

Boba looks up at him. And Plo catches his breath. The boy’s eyes are wet with unshed tears, and for just a second, there’s no mask there – just something raw and bare, and so very young.

Then Boba pushes his chair back and stomps off, shutting himself in the bathroom.

Plo shuts his eyes in sympathy, then begins to clear the dishes away.

***

The next morning: “Why don’t you eat?”

Plo smiles, and gestures towards his filter mask.

Boba’s brow furrows. “So – what, you just wait ’til I’m done and then go eat in your room? Weirdo.” He takes another bite of fruit. “How do you handle it when you’re out on campaign, then?”

“Nutritional pastes, sometimes. You’ve seen me use a straw. Or I can do without the filter for a few bites at a time.”

Boba tilts his head, and Plo wonders if the next question is going to be the inevitable _can I see what you look like without your mask?_ that almost every new acquaintance tries out sooner or later _,_ but it doesn’t come.

***

That afternoon: “Why are those wooden swords in the rack if we don’t ever train with them? Are they some _jetii_ thing – Baby’s First Lightsaber?”

(“Something like that,” Plo says, with such dignity and gravitas that one could almost believe he _didn’t_ spend most of his time in the creche running around swinging a wooden sword twice his size and pretending he was a pirate.)

***

  
  


A little later, helping Plo pin up the curtain he managed to beg from storage over the now-cushioned window seat: “You can just make the transparisteel opaque; what do you want a curtain for?”

(“Privacy,” Plo says, not specifying whose.)

***

And later still: “What are you even _doing_ here, instead of off fighting your kriffing war?”

(Plo tells the truth: that generals are dispatched where they are needed; that he and the Wolfpack have been deployed on a few security matters around Coruscant over recent days, and that when they’re sent back into the field proper, they’ll go.

What he doesn’t say is that the Council is giving him what time it can to get Boba situated and in a position where he’s safe to leave behind. Or that Plo is dreading the day when he’ll have to do just that.)

***

That evening: “Doesn’t _any_ of the food in this place have any spices?”

***

  
The day after that, all of Boba’s questions end up giving Plo an idea.

He’s always known that he’ll eventually need to enlist other Masters, if Boba is to have a properly rounded education; Plo can instruct him in a number of subjects, but he’s under no illusion that he can provide everything the boy needs by himself. Younglings in the Temple receive lessons from an array of tutors, with older padawans and Knights frequently asked to share their knowledge as well. Even once paired with a Master, a padawan is still encouraged to learn from other Masters whenever they can. Boba deserves no less. But first, that’s going to require getting the boy comfortable with the presence of other Jedi.

Not Mace. That’s a struggle for another day, much further down the path – if they get there at all.

Right now, the goal is for Boba to reach the point where he can study with other Masters – and can be allowed out in the Temple without Plo always around to keep him in check. So he’s starting as gently as possible, with a Jedi Boba can have no grudge against (whether from Geonosis or after), and who has a well-deserved reputation for softening even the most recalcitrant young students.

“Master Plo!”

Plo turns, beaming, as Jocasta Nu wafts towards them. She favours Plo with a regal smile.

“Madam Jocasta.” Plo bows.

“We haven’t seen you in some time.”

“I fear the demands of the war have kept me from the Archives more than I would like. But it is always good to see you.” He indicates Boba with a wave of his hand. “This is Boba Fett. Boba, meet Madam Jocasta Nu, the guardian of the Temple Archives.”

“Ah, yes, your new charge.” Madam Jocasta reaches out, all business – but slowly enough that Boba has time to move out of reach if he wishes. When he doesn’t, she carefully cups his chin and tilts it upward. “Let me look at you, child. Eleven years old, Master Plo said? And he tells me you’re unusually bright for your age.” Her smile softens, and she lets go, stroking her fingertips over his temple as she draws her hand away. “Do you like to read, Boba?”

Boba’s eyes are the size of dinner plates, and he’s tensed like he’s holding himself back from craning towards that touch. Apparently,he has no idea what to do with this level of grandmotherly attention. “Um. I guess? Yeah.”

“Well, then, let’s see if we can’t find you something to interest you.” She begins to stride away, without checking to make sure Boba is following – which, rather remarkably, he does. “The Temple’s archives are the product of thousands of years of collection. We have documents here going back beyond the founding of the Order. Are you fond of history? Yes? Then let’s see – history of Mandalore would be this row here...”

Plo lets them go, watching just long enough to satisfy himself that Madam Jocasta has the situation in hand. He then allows himself to indulge in browsing the stacks on his own behalf. It’s been a long time since he had the leisure to read anything apart from mission briefings, but perhaps, for however long he’s able to remain at the Temple…

He ends up selecting a couple of volumes on military strategy and a political history of Ryloth, given its burgeoning importance to the Republic. Madam Jocasta, meanwhile, has settled Boba at a computer terminal nearby, loading a programme onto it for him. Plo is just scanning a shelf of novels and debating adding one to his stack when he hears a familiar footstep turn the corner, and a voice say, _“Ko-to-yah,_ Master Plo.”

“ _Ko-to-yah,_ little ’Soka.” His delight at hearing Ahsoka’s voice quickly falters when he turns, and catches sight of the bandage on her arm. “A battle injury?”

“It’s nothing, just a graze.” She holds her arm out, letting him take it very gently between both hands and examine the bandaging. There’s the faintest starburst pattern of blood, long dried now; Plo traces it with one claw, careful not to press down at all. It does _look_ reasonably small, and the cold wave that washed over him on seeing her injured starts to ebb. “The healers on Alderaan did good work.”

Plo still remembers little ’Soka running to him for a bandage and a hug when she scraped her knee playing. It is the way of things, that children grow up and pass out of the protection of those who care for them, but he isn’t entirely sure he’ll ever get used to the thought of her sustaining actual war wounds. He releases her arm, and she reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder instead.

“Actually, Master Plo, that’s why I came looking for you. I need to talk to you about what I discovered on Alderaan. It’s about – well, it’s about Boba Fett.”

Plo glances over to where Boba is working away at the computer console. Ahsoka follows his gaze, and her eyes widen; he beckons her further into the stacks, out of Boba’s earshot.

Ahsoka keeps her voice low, even so. “There was a plot to assassinate Senator Amidala on Alderaan. She’s fine – we managed to stop the assassin in time. Ziro the Hutt tried to have her murdered for putting him in jail.”

“And so you saved the Senator’s life. Well done, Ahsoka!”

“Thank you, Master.” Her gaze goes soft for a moment, as she smiles up at him… then grows grave. “But – it’s _who_ Ziro hired. Aurra Sing. She’s alive.”

“I… see.” Plo bows his head, gears furiously turning. “Where is she now?”

“The Central Detention Centre. They say she’s not likely to get out for a _long_ time. But, well – it wouldn’t exactly be the first time the Detention Centre wasn’t enough to hold someone.”

“Just so. We cannot rule it out.”

“If she did manage to get loose… you don’t think she’d try to come get Boba, do you? I mean, either to rescue him or for revenge. He _did_ tell us where she was keeping the hostages, in the end.”

“It seems revenge was not the first thing on her mind while she was free, so I doubt she would come after Boba now.” He clasps Ahsoka’s shoulders. “If she were out for blood, I would be more concerned about you. This is the second time you’ve been responsible for her defeat.”

Her smile is just a little bit cocky, and Plo can’t help but love her for that, even if it sometimes worries him. “Don’t worry about me, Master. I think I’m more than a match for her now.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He smiles back, squeezing her shoulders before letting go. “As for rescue – Aurra abandoned Boba to save herself.” And there it is again, the banked flare of anger, as he remembers catching hold of Boba to keep him from chasing after the woman who had been the closest thing to a caretaker since his father died. Boba barely even struggled, just calling out brokenly after her – Plo shakes himself. “Without some kind of inducement, I don’t think she’ll have any interest in helping him.”

There’s a muffled sound in the next aisle – footsteps, turning and moving away at some speed. Plo’s ears prick up. It’s almost certainly nothing – the Archives are in constant use, after all.

He shifts a little further along the row, regardless.

“Master Plo...” Ahsoka looks hesitant. “Are you sure it’s worth it? Keeping him here in the Temple, I mean. I know he’s still a kid, but it’s not like he didn’t understand what he was doing. He nearly killed Master Windu – he nearly killed _you._ What if he tries again?”

“Then I think I’m more than a match for him,” Plo tells her playfully. The wry look she gives him is older than her years.

And that’s the problem, really. How can he argue that Boba deserves a second chance to be a child, to someone who wasn’t more than a handful of years older than that when she was first thrown into battle? Put in command of troops? Made to watch them die? If war and loss forced Boba to grow up too fast, then they did the same to Ahsoka.

Plo closes his eyes for a moment, heavy with the weight of that.

In the end, he says, “I have… _hope_ for him.”

Something complicated passes through Ahsoka’s eyes as she looks up at him. Then she nods. “Just – take care of yourself, okay, Master?”

“I will. And you, little ’Soka.”

She hugs him, sudden and fierce, and then she’s gone.

***

When they return to the main hall, Boba still has his eyes glued to the screen. It could be Plo’s imagination, but the boy looks a little flushed, as if he’s been rushing around instead of sitting in front of a computer.

Plo narrows his eyes in suspicion. He glances over at Madam Jocasta, working at the circulation desk a few metres away, who must have had an eye on Boba this whole time. She nods and gives him a smile.

Perhaps it is only imagination.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four attempts on Plo's life. This is the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Discussions of violence, imprisonment, and injustice (no direct depictions). Additional, spoilery content notes at the end.
> 
> This chapter also introduces Plo's former master, Tyvokka. I feel I should mention that my interpretation of Tyvokka is perhaps a bit more negative than most fans'; I do like him as a character and will strive to do him justice, but my version of Tyvokka may not be exactly what you're used to, just as an FYI.

The second attempt to kill Plo comes a few days later.

If it can even be called an _attempt,_ and Plo isn’t convinced it deserves the name. He remarks as much to Boba, as the two of them lie on the kitchen floor, knocked flat by the concussive force of the jury-rigged device Boba seems to have cooked up out of a few ingredients from the cabinets and some basic chemistry and then hidden in the nanowave stove.

“You’re not trying very hard at this,” Plo points out.

Boba draws in a deep breath, no doubt to power some truly impressive swearing, and then starts coughing instead. A predictable result, as they’re both covered head to toe in flour from the makeshift bomb. He eventually manages, “Kriff – _khhfff –_ you – _khhfff._ ”

“You had to _know_ it wasn’t particularly dangerous; you didn’t even make an effort to get out of range. Not that I’m complaining about not being killed.”

“ _Mir’sheb,_ ” Boba spits out, along with a mouthful of flour. _Smartass._

“I am most impressed by your ingenuity, however.” Plo idly starts sketching patterns with one claw in the flour next to him. “Do you have an interest in chemistry? Perhaps I should enroll you in a class.”

“Stop smiling, I can _hear_ you smiling, I hate you.”

Plo’s comm chirps, and he taps it. “Yes, Boost.”

“ _Sir? Everything all right in there? I heard a thump.”_

“Minor kitchen mishap, that’s all.” He climbs to his feet, holding out his hand to Boba who – predictably – doesn’t take it. “We’re both fine.”

“ _Understood, sir.”_

As Plo signs off, Boba mutters quietly, “Your mask.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your mask. Thought the flour would gum it up. That was the plan.”

“Gum it up.”

“Yeah.”

“The mask I’ve already told you I can do without for minutes at a time.” More than long enough to rush back inside his Dorin-atmosphered bedroom, or grab a spare. Boba isn’t stupid, nor is he incapable of putting together a plan that has a good chance of killing a Jedi master – Mace’s near death on Vanqor was proof of that. This is… not that. “All right. Say that it worked; what would you have done then?”

Boba juts his chin out stubbornly, and doesn’t meet Plo’s gaze.

Plo sighs. “Very well. Your punishment is to clean this up, and no trips to the Archives for the next five days.”

Boba, who’s been sitting up on the floor, half-falls backwards at that, leaning heavily on his hands and staring up at Plo. For a second, his mouth works without sound; then he finally gasps out, “What kind of a kriffing punishment is _that_?”

“I thought you liked the Archives?” Certainly, Boba’s been spending enough time there, and with his borrowed texts in the evenings.

“You – _ugh_!” The boy staggers to his feet. Immediately – as if he doesn’t quite realise he’s doing it – he sinks into what Plo recognises as a defensive stance, wide-limbed, a little crouched to keep his centre of gravity low. Braced, as if he’s going to be attacked. “Just stop it! I do this, and you try to punish me with _chores_? Like you’re my _dad_? What’s it gonna take for you to drop the act, and just send me off to prison already?”

“Do you _want_ to go to prison?” asks Plo, nonplussed.

“Of course not!” Boba shouts. “But it’s better than this! It’s better than you being all fake-nice to me, and I’m stuck waiting every day to find out what’s gonna finally push you over the edge and make all your goddamn _jetii_ niceness go away. People like me go to prison, that’s just how it is! I’m a bounty hunter. I’m a _rogue clone._ We don’t _get_ trials. And we don’t get window seats and library books and little presents, so stop acting like you’re gonna keep me when we both know you’re _not_!”

Those words seem to echo in the silence that follows, filled only with Boba’s harsh breathing, as they stare at each other. And maybe there’s something to this idea of the flour clogging his filter, because Plo suddenly feels like he’s struggling to breathe, too.

“Boba...” he starts. Stops. Crouches down, so they’re at eye level. And he opens his hands. It’s an overture of peace, set against Boba’s combative posture; a gesture of goodwill.

And a gesture that’s worth very little, Plo realises. Opening his hands to show that he’s unarmed is meaningless coming from a Jedi. For the same reason, any reassurance that he has no intention of sending Boba away is meaningless. Plo could restrain him with a thought, or imprison him with a word; he has all the power. And he’s rarely felt so helpless.

“You want to know what it would take,” he says instead. “All right. These are the things that would make me consider withdrawing my protection. If you hurt any of the civilians, here in the Temple or elsewhere. If you hurt one of your brothers – really hurt, not sparring or messing around. If you hurt any of the Jedi younglings.”

Boba’s eyes are big and solemn as he listens.

“I’m telling you this because you deserve to know that those lines exist, and where they are. And because –” Plo looks at Boba steadily. “Because I trust you not to do those things.”

Boba half-nods, then seems to catch himself. “You didn’t even mention Windu,” he whispers. “You didn’t mention _you._ ”

Plo straightens. “Anything apart from that: I may lose patience with you, yes. I may punish you – certainly, a _real_ attempt to hurt even a fully-fledged Jedi master would need to be punished.” He places enough stress on the word _real_ that Boba looks away, his cheeks flushing – as much in embarrassment as in anger, Plo senses. “But that punishment would not be to expel you from the Temple and throw you in prison. Now – vacuum cleaner is in the cabinet next to the conservator. Please.”

Boba rolls his eyes, but then sneaks a look back at Plo as he goes. There’s a kind of bewilderment in his eyes… and another emotion, as well, one Plo can’t quite name.

It’s tempting to let it rest there. It would probably be the right decision, as well. Let Boba mull over what Plo’s said, and give both of them space to begin to move back towards whatever strange equilibrium they’ve found over the last weeks.

Plo bows his head, and then calls the boy’s name.

“I promised you, when you came into my care, that I would not hurt you.” He isn’t looking at Boba, but he can sense the child’s sudden stillness. “And now I promise you one more thing: I will not give up on you, Boba. Whatever happens.”

It’s foolish, really. Plo can’t convince Boba by making promises, only by living them.

But perhaps it’s something to hold to. It wouldn’t be the first time.

***

“ _I will not give up on you.”_

It’s been thirty years and more, but Plo can still hear those words in Tyvokka’s guttural growl, as if his Wookie master were standing right in front of him – as massive and intimidating as ever.

Granted, Master Tyvokka had never seemed taller or more frightening than on that day, when a teenaged Plo Koon stood before him and offered to resign his place as Tyvokka’s padawan.

Only five hours earlier, he’d gone directly against his master’s orders, all but abandoning him in the process. Plo and Tyvokka had been pinned down when the Republic’s negotiations with a neutral power had gone south, and it had quickly become evident that their “hosts” had no intention of letting the Republic delegation leave alive. Along with Master Tholme, Tyvokka and Plo had been trying to get the delegates to their transport, while taking heavy fire.

That had been when Plo had cut away on his own to try and steal a fighter jet. He’d heard Tyvokka call after him, but he hadn’t looked back; he’d been able to see his destination in the minds of the enemy soldiers around him, the shipyard, the sleek little rank of light fighters at the back, the gate left unlocked while the troops were otherwise occupied. If Plo could get in one and get up in the air, he could cover the delegation’s retreat.

He’d managed to steal a fighter and launch, and even taken down two of the tower gun turrets. And then everything had gone so badly, badly wrong; the instrument panel suddenly wasn’t obeying him, a warning klaxon blaring and bright lights screaming at him from every side. An override, triggered by someone within the fortress. Plo had tried desperately to eject, even igniting his lightsaber to try and cut through the fighter’s canopy, but it had been too late –

And so, four hours and fifty minutes earlier, Tyvokka himself had been forced to leave off protecting the delegation in order to go pull Plo from the burning wreckage of his stolen ship.

Plo had awoken alone in the infirmary of a Republic transport. He’d made the decision in his hospital bed.

Now, he was clutching his bandaged arm hard, fighting to stay upright without swaying as he explained in brief, broken words that he was releasing Tyvokka of the commitment to teach him.

Tyvokka looked him up and down, and said in Shyriiwook, “ _No._ ”

“Master?”

“ _I do not accept your offer.”_

“Master, I know one of the delegates was injured because of me.” Plo fought back tears. “Because I left, and you had to run after me. Master Tholme told me as much. I know that I was impulsive, and foolish, and – and –”

His master’s gaze sat heavily on him, as it had so many times before – heavy and dark and thunderous, like the clouds above Dorin just before a storm cracks the skies open. And under that weight, something in Plo broke.

“And I’m never going to be good enough!” he choked out. “Just – just –”

Tyvokka slammed one great paw down on his desk with a roar. “ _Again with this self-indulgent excess of humility! What have I taught you?”_

Plo pressed a claw against the worst of the burns through his bandages, hating this, wishing he could crawl out of his skin. Wishing, more than anything, that Tyvokka would just have the mercy to _let him go,_ without dragging him through this castigation first. As if Plo weren’t already fully aware of the extent of his failings in his master’s eyes.

“Excess humility is as much a flaw in a Jedi as excess pride,” he recited, the words gritted out. “It is just as much a falsehood.”

“ _Yes, but you still do not understand_ why.” Tyvokka chuffed irritably. “ _As Jedi, we must understand our abilities honestly, so that we can use them in the service of others. When we err – as we all do – we look at those mistakes unflinchingly, that we may learn_ _and do better_ _.”_

Plo kept his head down. He sensed, more than saw, Tyvokka moving to stand right beside him. When the Wookie spoke again, his voice was softer than Plo could remember hearing it.

“ _If you retreat and lock yourself away because you do not believe you are enough, then you can do no good in the world. I would not choose a padawan who had nothing to offer, Plo Koon.”_

A warm weight settled on the top of his head. Plo looked up at last; Tyvokka was cradling his head with one huge paw. It was a gesture of rare affection that Plo had occasionally seen Wookies use with one another, but had never seen Tyvokka use at all, let alone with him.

Tyvokka rumbled, “ _I will not give up on you.”_

Plo remembers the next words just as clearly; he’s dwelt on them less often, over the years, but they come to mind now with particular vividness.

“ _And I ask you not to give up on me.”_

***

Even though it was Boost on duty, Wolffe is the one waiting for Plo when he leaves his quarters; and the first thing he says is, “Kitchen. Mishap.”

Plo gives him a speaking look. “Boba played a… prank, of sorts. He was trying to figure out where my limits are.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. “Little _di’kut._ You want me to talk to him?” He falls easily into step with Plo as they head towards the Council chamber.

“Thank you, but no. I think he’s frightened enough, and that may very well be the problem.” Plo winces. The prospect of his commander attempting to put the Fear of Wolffe into Boba like he’s a recalcitrant shiny – no. No, no, that would end badly for everyone involved. “What I don’t know is why now, when it seemed as though things were finally...” Plo trails off.

_I’m a bounty hunter. People like me go to prison._

He groans, causing Wolffe to look round. “Sir?”

“Aurra Sing. It turns out she survived the crash of her ship. She’s been captured and taken to the Central Detention Centre; I thought we’d managed to keep that from Boba. Clearly, I failed.”

“Well, I hope they throw away the key on her.” Wolffe’s voice is grim. “For Ponds.”

Plo rests a hand on Wolffe’s back for a brief moment, fingers curled loosely just at the edge between the armour and the back of his neck. “Agreed.” If Sing does get a long sentence, of course, it’s far more likely to be for her attempt on Senator Amidala’s life, which didn’t succeed, than for Ponds’s execution or for any of the men killed aboard the _Endurance._ Plo is under no illusions about the way the Republic’s justice system regards clones, and he knows Wolffe isn’t, either.

Maybe that’s why, after they’ve walked in silence a little longer, Wolffe muses, “And for the kid, too. From what those cadets off the _Endurance_ said, it sounds like she put him up to a lot of it, and you can bet _she’d_ be sleeping pretty soundly if it was _him_ in prison. I’m sure she never thought of him as anything more than disposable.” A moment later: “I can _tell_ you’re smirking under there, sir.”

“I assure you, Kel Dor don’t have the right anatomy to smirk,” says Plo, smirking.

“All right, all right. I’m kind of rooting for the kid. Is that what you want to hear?” They pause outside the Council chamber. “But if he pulls another dumbfuck stunt after this, I _am_ going to tear him a new one, and I’m going to start sleeping on your floor if that’s what it takes to keep him in line.”

With a little more effort than it should take, Plo very, very firmly steers his mind away from the idea of Wolffe sharing his bedroom to protect him. “Noted, Commander,” he says lightly, and bows to Wolffe in farewell. He turns away before adding over his shoulder, “I shall make sure I have enough sleeping bags and Hoth chocolate for the entire Pack.”

Wolffe gives Plo his crispest, most perfect salute in response, and Plo is _just_ about certain it isn’t his imagination that Wolffe murmurs, “ _Mir’sheb,_ ” with a note of affection, under his breath.

Plo finds himself feeling strangely lighter as he enters the chamber. For all his uncertainty about Boba, at least he isn’t in this alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content notes: Boba's creating what is essentially an improvised explosive device to attack the person he shares his home with is treated rather lightly in this chapter. There are reasons for this, of course - the fact that both Plo and Boba know the device couldn't have hurt him; Plo being an adult and a Jedi master while Boba is a child essentially without legal rights. However, what Boba does here still skates close to issues of domestic and family violence, so please consider whether that content, combined with the lighter tone, is something you wish to read.
> 
> A fun note on language for you all: "di'kut" is Mando'a for "idiot", but the literal translation is something more like "pantsless" - ie, someone who forgot to put their pants on.
> 
> As I pointed out in my other Star Wars found family AU, "Three Moons Setting", Hoth chocolate is an actual, canonical thing. This franchise is so ridiculous I want like fifty of them. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boba is acting strange(r than usual), and Plo Koon manages to turn a joke into a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this chapter (other than a strong focus on food), but please heed the updated fic tags above.

“Hoth chocolate, Master Plo?” Yar’chi, the manager on duty at the canteen, raises three of her brow ridges skeptically.

Plo inclines his head. “If you would be so kind. A small supply that I could keep in my quarters, so I would not need to trouble you every time.” He initially said it to Wolffe as a joke, but the more he’s thought about it, the better an idea it seems. A little wordless comfort may do what words cannot.

“Well, I can certainly give you a canister; we have enough in stock, as there’s little demand for it outside the creche.” Her mandibles clack as she chuckles. “And, of course, young Anakin Skywalker; I must have been making it for him for, oh, a decade now, and he’s got his padawan as hooked as he is. But, Master Plo – I don’t believe Tauntaun milk is advisable for Kel Dor.”

“Oh, it isn’t for me.”

“Ah.” All of Yar’chi’s eyes slit knowingly. “That young clone you’re looking after, then? Well, good. Just the thing for a little one who’s been through a time.” She places a sizeable canister of the drink powder on the counter, then slips a small pouch next to it. “The pouch is the kind without the milk. Not the same, I’m afraid, but it shouldn’t make you sick, if you fancy joining him.”

Plo bows low to her. “That’s very kind, Yar’chi. And I hope your brood are well?”

“Pfft.” She waves her right arms. “All thriving, from what I hear, though with how little some of them call me, you’d think they’d moved to the next galaxy instead of just a couple systems away. Do you know, a few of them didn’t even remember Progenitors’ Day this year? I never miss a single birthday for even one of the fourteen thousand of them, but can they be troubled to send a card? And after I sat on their eggsac for a full month – of course, I was much younger then, Master Plo...”

***

When Plo eventually makes it back up to his quarters, the kitchen is immaculate, and Boba is passed out on the sofa, his datapad clutched in one hand.

Plo pauses a moment to look at him. Then, very carefully, he takes the blanket off the back of the sofa and spreads it over Boba.

Watching the subtle, uneven shifts in the water as it begins to heat and roil is a useful aid to meditation – something of which he’s been getting far too little lately. Plo lets his vision soften, the vibrations of the living Force spreading from the water, through him, and out into the universe. When he comes back to awareness, the water is ready. He measures the chocolate out into two cups, finding satisfaction in the simple motions: in the way powder and water become one substance and steam begins to rise. As an afterthought, he opens the small packet, as well, and fixes a third cup for himself.

Comet is the one patrolling the hallway this evening. He doffs his helmet when Plo approaches, and accepts the mug with an expression of mild surprise that turns into a grin as soon as he realises what it contains. Plo smiles back, pleased; a good decision after all.

“Commander Wolffe told me to ask whether the kid has been… uh, giving you any more trouble, sir,” Comet says, in between huge gulps that are almost certainly going to burn the roof of his mouth.

“In those words?” Plo asks, amused.

Comet pauses. “In less nice words, sir.”

“Well, you can tell the commander that no, Boba has not given me any more trouble. You needn’t drink so fast, Comet; no one is going to take it away from you.”

The young man’s grin is sheepish. “Sorry, sir. ’S really good, is all.”

“I’m glad.” Plo waits with him, making small talk about the latest drama in the barracks (it seems one of the shinies is still carrying around a rivalry from his training days with a soldier from the 501st, and the older troopers in both battalions are taking bets), and eventually takes the empty cup back. Boba is stirring from his nap, blinking dazed, sleepy eyes; nevertheless, when Plo holds the other proper Hoth chocolate out to him, he fixes Plo with a scalding look.

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“Seriously.”

“This is starting to feel like you’re making fun of me,” Boba grouses, but he takes the cup, nonetheless. Plo fetches his own, and perches on the arm of the sofa.

“I promise I’m not.” Someday, Plo is going to manage to get Boba used to the idea that not every tiny scrap of kindness is either a lie or a debt he’ll be called on to pay down the line. Given what it seems Boba’s experienced since his father died, that may be an uphill battle.

They drink in silence.

***

A few things change, after that.

Plo notices that when he’s walking with his charge through the Temple, Boba’s eyes sweep over corners and map out exits more often than they have since the early days after his arrival. Twice, Plo catches him unscrewing the cover to a ventilation duct (once, actually halfway up one). It’s not exactly a surprise that the boy is still looking for a way out. If Plo is honest with himself, it’s not even _unreasonable._ But it stings, just a little.

Shortly after the five days are up and Boba’s Archives privileges are restored, Madam Jocasta catches him one afternoon shimmying out of a ventilation duct behind a shelf of Wookie cultural histories. She gives him a look of such aching disappointment that Boba actually apologises. Since then, he’s either abandoned the idea of misbehaving in the Archives entirely, or gotten a lot more sneaky about it.

Meanwhile, it transpires that Sinker likes his Hoth chocolate barely sweetened, so it’s almost as bitter as caf; Boost, naturally, likes his with an extra scoop of sugar (or two, if he can get away with it). Comet and Warthog will happily drink it any way it comes, and can each put away a mug of chocolate so fast it must break some kind of land speed record.

(“You know, General, I genuinely thought you were kidding about this,” Wolffe grumbles, watching his squad arrayed around Plo’s living room for a break before shift change, drinking Hoth chocolate and gleefully mocking each other, with Boba perched on the sofa between them. Boba won’t admit to any kind of chocolate preference, but he gulps his down greedily every time Plo hands him a cup.

Plo nods at the mug of chocolate – lightly sweetened, with a hint of chilli – that Wolffe is clutching, and teases, “You don’t need to drink yours, Commander, if you disapprove.”

“No, I’m drinking it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to feel you were obligated –”

“It’s mine, you gave it to me, _back off_ , sir.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All fourteen thousand of Yar’chi’s brood were born at once, so they all have just the one birthday to remember. Plo knows this, but he’s too polite to say anything. :)
> 
> It’s my personal headcanon about Anakin that a childhood of great deprivation + sudden access to a much better range and quality of food and drink = a massive sweet tooth. Plus, it’s easy to imagine poor Obi-Wan, abruptly promoted to de facto dad and basically having to raise a traumatised nine-year-old while coping with his own trauma, making cocoa for himself and his padawan on quite a few bad nights when one or both of them was struggling. (And possibly allowing a few evenings of ice cream for dinner. :)) It runs in the family, now, and has become Anakin’s go-to way of comforting or rewarding his own padawan. (Which is not to say that Plo himself bears NO responsibility for little ’Soka’s love of Hoth chocolate...)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boba gets a new teacher, and the Wolfpack goes hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter: Mild mention of injury and references to canonical deaths, nothing explicit. Also note that glossary has been updated!

After what he feels he can comfortably claim as a success with Madam Jocasta, Plo takes his time choosing the next Jedi Master to introduce to Boba. Of the Masters Plo himself is closest to, Mace is obviously out of the question. Yoda, too, is out: as head of the Order, he would likely represent everything Boba blames the Jedi for. Obi-Wan, the boy no doubt remembers with little fondness, given that Obi-Wan is the one who pursued him and his father to Geonosis before the fateful battle. Shaak Ti is now permanently on Kamino. That essentially leaves Adi Gallia and Kit Fisto, and after some thought, Plo settles on the latter. He knows his friend is still hurting from the death of his last padawan, Nahdar. There is no shortening a grief like that, but perhaps – Kit is such a good teacher. Perhaps the chance to share that gift again, not just in the creche, but with a child of padawan age, one who needs more time and attention than most… well. Perhaps it may help them both.

And Boba will probably like Kit. It’s almost physically impossible to _not_ like Kit.

Granted, if anyone’s going to actually make the attempt, it’s Boba – who, on being introduced, crosses his arms and says flatly, “I’m not calling anyone ‘Master’.”

Kit crouches down to bring himself to eye level with Boba, and offers a gentle smile, one that’s only slightly trembling at the edges. (Plo wonders, briefly, whether this is actually too soon, but he decides to trust Kit, and the Force.) “You can call me Kit. It’s nice to meet you, Boba.”

“Kit will be teaching you from now on – mathematics and science, as well as some new fighting skills for your repertoire,” Plo explains.

Boba’s gaze drops to his feet. He studies them with great interest. “Sick of me already, _jetii_?” And anyone who hasn’t spent the amount of time Plo has with him recently might miss the way his crossed arms tighten, wrapping around his belly, until he’s almost hugging himself.

Plo has circled around to kneel in front of him before he can even think. “ _Never._ ” Boba’s head comes up at that, his eyes wary. “Kit’s classes will _supplement_ your education, for a few hours a week. You’ll still be in my care. And you’ll still train with your brothers just as often.”

He lifts a hand – so slowly – and brings it to rest on Boba’s shoulder. He can feel the boy tense, and he prepares to pull back; but then Boba relaxes fractionally, allowing the touch. “It’s your choice; we won’t force you,” Plo reassures him softly. Boba is going to need proper instruction at some point; combat training and free run of the Archives aren’t a substitute for a real education. But they _can_ suffice for now, if that’s what it takes for Boba to be comfortable. They can revisit the idea weeks from now, or even months.

Boba is clearly startled, and looks like he’s thinking furiously. Kit’s the one who clinches it, though, by piping up, “I understand you were raised on Kamino, Boba.”

“Yeah? So?”

“A water planet, like mine.” The Nautolan grins. “I take it you haven’t had a chance to try the swimming pool in the training rooms yet?”

Boba’s eyes light up.

***

Plo makes a point of sitting in on several of Boba’s early lessons. It’s a little awkward, but if the alternative is Boba feeling like Plo has _abandoned_ him to another Jedi, then he’ll curl up in a corner of Kit’s study to drink tea and make his way through after-action reports, just to be visibly _there_.

Kit, thank the Force, smiles at him and sticks a box of Plo’s favourite tea in the kitchen cupboard, and says nothing about it.

An unexpected bonus is that this gives Plo a chance to assess what Boba has already learned, and where his knowledge needs further development. As it turns out, Boba’s education to date has been wide-ranging and highly practical. He has an almost frighteningly acute grasp of astrophysics when it’s presented in the context of flying a ship or using a targeting system, even if there are some gaps in his understanding of the more abstract scientific principles, and many of the terms he uses appear to be neither Republic nor Mandalorian standard. Jango Fett, it seems, believed in teaching from the bridge of a ship or on the training mat more than in a classroom, but there can be no denying he did well by his son.

Boba also takes to the pool with an enthusiasm he’s shown for nothing apart from reading and sparring with his brothers. It turns out he can swim like a fish, or rather, as Kit puts it proudly, like a Nautolan. When the two masters inquire about it, Boba just shrugs. “Yeah, of course. First thing I learned as a kid. I mean, whole planet’s an ocean; what if I fell in?”

“ _Did_ you ever fall in?” Plo asks. Boba draws himself up and answers, with great dignity,

“Well, not by _accident._ ”

A pause, and then there’s just the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Plo bursts out laughing. A flash of surprised pleasure passes across Boba’s face, and then he ducks his head, looking taken aback at himself.

***

On the day of the fourth lesson, word arrives of a Separatist infiltration squadron in the Coruscanti underworld, and the Wolfpack goes on the hunt.

Wolffe is standing at attention, Sinker and Boost flanking him, as Plo finishes strapping on his bracers. He notices Boba watching.

“I’ll be home as soon as our mission is complete.” Plo pauses, looking back. “Would you rather I cancel today’s lesson with Master – with Kit?”

Boba shakes his head. “Nah. It’s okay.”

Plo smiles encouragingly. “Good. I’ll ask him to come here to pick you up. And you know the emergency system –”

“Just _go, jetii,_ don’t you have a war or something?”

Wolffe shoots the boy a warning look before putting his helmet on. For all Boba’s flippant tone, though, his eyes are dark. Plo sees them dart from Wolffe’s helmet to Plo’s bracers and back.

Plo has a sudden, vivid flash of Jango Fett, and wonders if that’s the way Boba saw his father last – fastening on the last of his armour, glancing back at his son before lowering the helmet over his eyes.

“This mission is only routine,” Plo finds himself saying. “We’ll be back before you know it. Have a good day with Kit, Boba.”

As he keys in the door code – as he turns away and falls into step with Wolffe, the rest of the Pack swinging into formation behind them – Plo draws a long breath, and lets his concern for his charge flow through him and out, dissolving into the stream of the living Force. At this moment, he needs to be a general rather than a guardian. The best thing he can do for Boba right now is to keep him safe, by keeping everyone safe.

***

In the end, the mission is a success. An _eventful_ success, to be sure: the Pack just manages by the skin of their teeth to catch up with the last Separatist before she can detonate the explosives she’s planted. Still, she and her entire squadron are taken alive. The only injuries the Pack sustains are the irritating, but ultimately mild, burn along Plo’s arm where he tackled Comet to shield him from a blaster bolt, and the bald patch Wolffe is going to give himself if he keeps tearing his hair out that way over Plo pulling what Wolffe calls (not _to_ Plo, but very definitely where he knows Plo can hear him) “ _dini’la_ stunts like that”.

“You all did exceptionally well today,” Plo tells the Wolfpack as they take their places on the transport home. They’ve handed over the prisoners, and Plo can feel the mood of the Pack shift – backs slumping as the battle-high comes down, muscles unknotting, exhaustion starting to creep in. “The way you protected the civilians – and one another – showed your skill, and courage. It’s nothing short of remarkable to execute such a dangerous mission without anyone getting hurt.”

Wolffe’s gaze goes pointedly to the bandage around Plo’s arm, then back up to meet his eyes.

“I would expect nothing less, but I want you to know that I’m proud of every one of you,” Plo finishes. He returns the scattered salutes and drops onto the bench beside Wolffe.  
  


After a moment, Plo says, low, “It’s barely a scratch.”

“Might not be, next time. Sir.”

“Are you suggesting I should have just let Comet take the hit?”

“We’re armoured for a reason, General. You aren’t.” It’s an old argument, almost comfortable now. Plo tilts his head back against the inner hull of the transport and lets out a little hum, in lieu of actually voicing his disagreement.

Something’s different this time around, though. Wolffe seems more agitated than usual, his shoulders drawn tight under the armour, helmet clutched hard between his hands. Eventually, he growls, as if the words are being tugged out of him against his will, “Comet doesn’t want to be the reason you don’t come back from a mission some day.” He darts a look at Plo over his shoulder, and just as quickly looks away. “None of us do. I sure as kriff don’t.”

The briefest flare of annoyance goes through Plo – as if it’s any easier for him, to be the reason _any_ of his men don’t come home – with a spark of guilt to follow it; just as quickly, though, both are replaced with a bone-deep weariness. This is _Wolffe._ He isn’t speaking lightly. They were there together, the day the _Malevolence_ wiped most of the 104th off the face of the universe. They both know, without saying it, what it is to be the ones left behind.

Plo settles a hand on Wolffe’s shoulder, and says nothing. Instead, as they draw closer to the barracks, he lets his exhausted head droop until it’s resting heavily against Wolffe’s pauldron. It’s a silent apology for something he can’t actually regret. He thinks Wolffe knows, because there’s the soft tickle of hair against his skin as, for just an instant, Wolffe turns and presses his forehead to his general’s.

All around them, troopers are beginning to doze in heaps of two or three, the day taking its toll at last. Plo closes his eyes. In this moment – in _this_ moment – each one of them is safe.

***

All in all, Plo’s scarcely had space all day for a thought that isn’t about his mission or his Pack. It’s only once he’s seen his men safely back to barracks that he really lets the exhaustion hit. His footsteps drag as he makes his way back to his quarters, more than ready to just clean himself up and collapse…

As he turns the corner, he sees Kit standing outside his quarters, a grave expression on his face. And suddenly Plo’s footsteps are flying.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Boba has his own agenda, Plo's in over his head, and their slowly developing trust slams into a roadblock Plo didn't see coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular content warnings on this one, although it does spoil the fate of a minor character from the Star Wars comics.

Kit sees the look on Plo’s face, and pre-empts any questions with, “Boba’s fine.” Then he pauses for a moment, and amends, “Boba’s safe _._ ”

Safe, but perhaps not _fine._ Plo takes a moment to parse that. “What did he do?”

“Are you hurt? Your arm –”

“Kit.”

Kit blows out a noisy breath. “Understand, I can’t be completely certain. But I left him for a few moments to go fix us some food, and when I returned, he was stepping back from the comm terminal in a hurry. I tried to check the logs, but they were scrambled so badly I couldn’t even be sure anything had gone out.”

This… isn’t what Plo was expecting. Boba knows he’s not allowed communication with anyone outside the Temple; they covered that rule early on. But he’s never shown much interest in trying before. “You think he called someone?”

“I didn’t hear him speak. I think he sent a data packet. No idea who it might have been for; if he did this, he covered his tracks pretty well.” Kit gives Plo a long look. “Or he was just standing in the wrong place when the system glitched.”

“That seems… unlikely.”

“Either way, I didn’t feel right interrogating the child. I brought him back here to wait for you.”

Plo claps a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

He does. He really does. “No, thank you. I don’t want him to feel as if we’re ganging up on him.”

Kit cups the back of Plo’s neck. It’s an old gesture between them. “Comm me if you need me.”

Plo simply nods, and Kit shoots him a last look before heading off down the corridor.

The lights inside their quarters are dim, and it occurs to Plo how late the hour is. Boba is sitting in the middle of the sofa. He’s kicking his feet idly, like a child bored with his lessons who just wants to go home. Plo does not miss the fact that this innocent tic only started up after he walked in the door.

“Boba,” he says quietly. “We need to talk.”

Boba cocks his head, challenging.

“Kit caught you accessing his comm terminal. What were you doing?”

The boy opens his mouth… and then his expression falters, as Plo crouches down and the faint light catches the white bandage around his arm. Boba’s eyes are suddenly riveted to it. Whatever he was going to say a moment before, what actually comes out is, “You’re hurt –”

“It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter. Don’t change the subject.” Plo is so terribly tired. “You know you’re not allowed a comm.”

Boba goes very still. His gaze slides up to meet Plo’s, and there’s something hot and bitter in those eyes now.

Boba says, so softly, “But this isn’t a prison, right, _jetii_?”

Plo closes his eyes. He tries, “Who were you trying to contact? Perhaps we could call them for you.” As far as he’s been able to determine, Jango didn’t have any living family apart from Boba, but Mandalore’s bureaucracy tends not to be very accommodating towards Jedi, even when it doesn’t concern a bounty hunter who seems to have made a concerted effort to erase all official record of his existence. It’s entirely possible Plo missed someone – someone Boba might try and get in touch with. Someone who could, perhaps, if the Council agrees to it, come and claim custody of the boy and…

Plo isn’t prepared for how much that possibility hurts. It _burns,_ like trying to breathe Coruscant’s air without his mask.

Boba simply stares him down. “Wasn’t.”

“The communications logs had been scrambled.”

“So? Maybe that fancy _jetii_ computer glitched.”

“Interesting timing.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“You can tell me, I won’t be angry –”

“ _Kriff_ you!” Boba is suddenly inches from Plo’s face. “ _You_ won’t be angry? _You_?? They’re _your_ stupid rules! Can’t have a comm, can’t go anywhere on my own – you wanna pretend I’m –”

“We can relax the rules, in time, once you’ve shown that we can trust –”

“– some kind of, of _padawan,_ or something?” Boba talks right over him, his voice rising. “ _Family_? But as soon as I do something you don’t like, I’m just a prisoner – it’s not my _business,_ don’t _change the subject_ , I can’t even – I can’t...”

Plo makes himself breathe. “Boba, I don’t care that you broke a rule. I care because some of the people you’ve associated with in the past are _dangerous._ Depending on who you contacted, and what you sent them, you could be putting us at risk. You could be putting the civilians at the Temple, and your own brothers, at risk. Do you understand?”

Boba says nothing, but he’s breathing hard, pupils blown in the dim light.

“All I want to know is that, whatever you sent or didn’t send, it won’t bring danger down on the Temple.” Plo is aware that he’s just given away whatever control of the situation he had. He knows he’s begging. “Can you promise me that?”

The child shakes his head.

Plo’s heart sinks. “Is that because –”

“Because you don’t _get_ to ask me for promises, _jetii.”_ To Plo’s shock, there are angry tears glistening in Boba’s eyes. _“_ Because we. Are not. Family.”

***

As exhausted as Plo is, when he finally gets to bed, sleep eludes him.

He shuts himself in his bedroom to give Boba space. Listens, a bit conflicted about the intrusion in doing so, for the familiar recital for the dead (just the beginning, just to make sure Boba’s okay), but it doesn’t come. Opens the door again. Boba is sitting upright on the sofa, facing away from him; Plo can just about make out the silhouette.

“Boba,” he whispers. Boba doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge him; but there’s a change in the boy’s breathing, almost like he’s holding it. Plo presses ahead. He should have said this before, should have said it _first,_ before the recriminations _._ “Your br-”

He stops. _We are not family._

“The Wolfpack,” he says instead, “are all fine after today’s mission. No one else was injured.”

Boba still doesn’t say anything, and Plo beats an embarrassingly quick retreat.

He lies in bed after that and gazes up through the darkness. He doesn’t listen again for the recitation; and yet he can’t get its subject out of his head. Even though Plo never met Jango Fett, he can practically feel the man’s presence, oppressively close. Dark eyes – eyes that would have been so like Wolffe’s or Sinker’s or Boost’s, and yet nothing like them – boring holes in Plo from the shadows. Boba’s lost family.

Plo finds his mind turning down old, old pathways. It seems it’s a night for ghosts.

***

_The new_ _youngling_ _was crying._

_He’d been quiet since his arrival, but over his first dinner at the Temple, he’d been at least all brave smiles. Those were gone now. He lay on his front with his face buried in a pillow, his body all curled around it, and he shook as he tried to keep the sobs inside, and couldn’t._

_The bunk the new boy was lying on was stupidly tall. That, or human kids had ridiculously long legs for their ages. Plo was not deterred. He’d spent the last two years at the Temple, learning to deal with a world where everything was just a little bit too big and far away (the Masters told him his people hit their growth spurts in adolescence, which was encouraging even if that seemed impossibly distant). He gripped the sheets, and, with every ounce of determination in his six-year-old body, scrabbled up the side of the bunk like a tiny mountineer until he was sitting on top, near the new boy’s feet._

_A pair of bloodshot blue eyes peering over the edge of the pillow were the only indication that the boy had noticed his arrival. Plo scooted closer. When this didn’t provoke a negative reaction, he reached out carefully and patted the newcomer’s back. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. I was scared at first, too. But you’ll like it here!”_

_The boy’s sobs slowed a little. “Y-yeah?”_

“ _Yeah! The Temple’s great!” Plo moved to sit against the boy’s side, while reaching up to pet the shaggy fur on his head. Human head fur was so soft! “The masters are nice, and we get to learn to fight with_ real swords, _and...”_

_He kept talking softly, just listing everything that came into his head – fun things the younglings got to do; fun things they didn’t get to do yet, but they_ would _once they were big enough to be padawans; fun things they didn’t technically get to do, but you could definitely do if you were very sneaky and didn’t get caught with that giant bowl of pudding from the kitchens. The new boy was starting to quiet, lulled by Plo’s voice and the hand stroking over his fur. Plo must have been lulled, too, because he started to take less care over what he was saying._

“ _Plus, we get to have Life Day presents, and some of the masters even sing carols! And we can still visit home sometimes, once we’ve been here a while. And remember what your mother said when the masters came to pick you up. She said you’ll be in her heart, no matter how far away you are.”_

_The boy abruptly wrenched away and stared at Plo. “How did you know that?”_

_Plo blinked. Oh no. Oh_ no _, and after all the time the masters had spent trying to get him to keep his walls up…_

_With a snarl, the boy shoved Plo, sending him sprawling. “I said, how the_ kriff _did you know what my mother told me before I even got here?”_

“ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to –”_

“ _He really doesn’t mean to,” came a voice from across the room; Micah Giiett, the oldest of the creche children at almost nine, lounging on his bunk like some kind of old-fashioned monarch. He surveyed them both over the top of his datapad. “Plo can see things, sometimes, when he touches someone. It’s just something his people can do. It doesn’t happen on purpose. Don’t get mad at him – it’s not his fault, any more than it’s our fault that you and I can breathe the air here, and he can’t.” He grinned lazily. “And he still won’t use it to help me win card games with the padawans, because he’s the woooorst.”_

“You’re _the worst,” Plo told him, adoringly, and chucked the new boy’s pillow in Micah’s direction. The boy squawked. Micah caught the pillow and spun it on the top of his hand without looking._

“ _I’m thinking maybe we can help – what’s your name again, kiddo?”_

“ _Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon Jinn.”_

“ _Well, I think maybe we can help Qui-Gon here settle in if we make it seem a bit more like home. Where you from, Qui-Gon?”_

_Qui-Gon ducked his head, embarrassed. “Coruscant.” But if Micah thought less of him for being homesick when Qui-Gon hadn’t even left his own planet, he didn’t show it. Instead he nodded thoughtfully._

“ _Huh. Okay. What’s your favourite place on Coruscant?”_

“ _I… I like the municipal gardens. They’re really high up so the plants can get light, and you can see the whole city from there. And you can climb right up in the trees, if no one –” The boy abruptly clamped his mouth shut._

“ _If no one catches you?” Micah grinned. Then he glanced past Qui-Gon. “What do you say, Plo? Midnight trip to the Room of a Thousand Fountains?”_

“ _Yeah!” Plo went to leap off the bed, but found himself picked up under the arms and plonked neatly on the floor, instead. He glanced up to see Qui-Gon giving him a sheepish smile as he himself slid down._

“ _Hey, sorry about before,” Qui-Gon said. And then he stuck out a hand._

_Plo looked at the hand._

_He’d been around humans enough to understand the gesture, even if it wasn’t a Kel Dor one – but it startled him, nonetheless. Handshakes meant skin-to-skin, and even the kindest people he’d met were usually reluctant to touch him if he made the mistake of letting his walls slip with them once. To have it offered, and offered so_ soon _after he’d screwed up –_

_He enthusiastically clasped Qui-Gon’s hand before the other boy could change his mind._

“ _C’mon,” Micah whispered. They tiptoed past the bunks where Adi and Shaak and Kit were asleep, and out into the hallway. The crechemasters’ quarters were all dark and silent, and the three boys were able to sidle past, holding their breath until they were out of earshot._

_Plo will never forget the look on Qui-Gon’s face when he first saw the sprawling gardens of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, glossy leaves and flowing water all gleaming faintly in the starlight beyond the high glass dome. It was more than wonder. It was something closer akin to falling in love._

_Qui-Gon slept soundly in the creche from that day forward._

_But that was a child’s problem and a child’s solution, and this… this is nothing so simple, or so clear._

***

In the dark, Plo finds himself speaking to the two boys he grew up alongside, and loved, and ultimately buried.

“He’s so much more alone than we ever were,” he whispers, though Boba is hopefully long asleep and Plo’s unfiltered voice isn’t loud enough to reach beyond the door in any case. “So scarred, for one so young, and with so much more to carry than we had. And I don’t know what to _do_.”

He doesn’t know how much later it is when sleep finally claims him, the touch of his ghosts still lying heavy on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd already written the line where Plo asks, "What did he do?" before I posted the last chapter, so the fact that several comments in response to that one also IMMEDIATELY asked, "Shit, what has Boba done now?" amused the hell out of me. :D
> 
> Different Star Wars media tends to go in different directions on the questions of whether Plo Koon has an innate telepathic ability greater than other Jedi; whether this is something inherent to his species; and whether it's activated or enhanced by touch. My answers for this fic are yes to all three.
> 
> On a lighter note, I still hold fast to the headcanon that Tiny!Plo Koon was Trouble with a capital T, and making the early acquaintance of both Micah Giiett and Qui-Gon Jinn did not help in the slightest. (Micah, if you haven't encountered him, appears mostly in the comics, and still isn't in them nearly enough for my taste. He is a sly, snarky, gambling trickster Jedi who at one point in the _Star Wars Tales_ anthology enters a cooking competition against a famous chef droid who works for one of the Hutts, and merrily drags Plo into the mayhem with him. He is a treasure, and I recommend you check him out!)
> 
> If you're wondering how the pudding jibes with the Kel Dor aversion to dairy from a couple chapters back - the pudding is for Hijinks rather than for eating. :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo goes to an old friend for advice... and has to cope with the fact that the Council isn't taking Boba's latest escapades particularly well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to canon character death.

The next morning, the Council receives Plo’s report of the possible security breach in silence.

Silence is never truly silence from the Council, of course. Plo’s known most of the other Masters for decades; several, since he himself was a youngling. Even if he couldn’t pick out their emotions roiling in the living Force around him, he would still be able to read the arch of Mace’s brow, the solemn flicker of Adi’s gaze, the way Ki-Adi Mundi shifts back in his chair (as if to gain some distance from the discussion) and the way Yoda’s ears flatten. Kit turns to watch Plo, the warm sympathy in his eyes needing no interpretation, and Plo inclines his head very slightly in gratitude.

“Mmm. Concerning, this is,” Yoda finally intones, his eyes far away.

“Is it?” Plo keeps his voice mild. “I would venture to suggest that we don’t know that. There are any number of possibilities, only a handful of which _might_ constitute an actual danger, to the Temple or to Boba.”

“I would also remind the Council that I might have been mistaken,” Kit puts in gently.

Ki-Adi says, “Either way – assuming that Master Fisto is correct in his observation, of course – the fact that these past weeks in the Temple have done so little to curb the boy’s behaviour –”

“Boba’s behaviour has been better than we had any right to expect,” Plo cuts in. “A message, if there _was_ a message sent, is neither a violent outburst nor an attempted escape –”

“Either of which would be well within your abilities to handle.” Mace’s voice is firm. “As you have already done. We don’t know _what_ we’re dealing with now. You were granted custody of the boy on the grounds that you contain him, Plo. This is _not_ contained.”

“He is a _child_.” Plo knows he’s digging in; senses the vibrations of it moving out through the Force, as if he’s physically stamping his feet onto the ground, and feels the tiny ripples of affront or concern bouncing back from the other Council members. “If he did sneak access to a comm, that’s not exactly unforgiveable. Most of us did worse than that at his age.”

Ki-Adi protests, “As a prank, perhaps! Not as part of a plot to assassinate a Jedi master –”

“There is _no evidence –”_

Yoda holds up a hand, and the Council lapses into uneasy silence. Plo lowers his head and glowers at his fellow Masters.

“A condemnation of the boy’s character, this is not,” Yoda says quietly. “Understandable, his conduct is. And yet, consider we must, whether current arrangements are enough to keep him secure. A prison, the Temple is not.”

“I thought that was precisely the point,” Plo rumbles. “A prison is not where Boba belongs.”

“And agree, the Council did.” Yoda shoots him a quelling look. “Spoke to the Republic courts, we did, on his behalf. Spent what influence the Jedi have with the government – little though that is, in such times. To send the child away now, we do not intend. But care you must take, Plo Koon. More at stake, there is, than the welfare of one child, should things end badly.”

Plo lets silence – which is never truly silence – speak for him, for a moment, before bowing his head. “I understand, Master Yoda.”  
  


_***_

“You’re distracted.”

Plo gives Kit the most disdainful look he knows how, which isn’t an easy feat from his current position, flat on his back on the training mat. “Really. Do you think?”

Kit grins, and lightly taps Plo’s foot with the end of his staff – the same staff he just used to sweep Plo’s legs out from under him with far less effort than it should have taken. “Up! Come on! You can tell me about it if you can keep up while you do it; the movement will help you think.”

Plo accepts the other master’s offer of a hand up – and then, while Kit is still pulling him upright, swings around with his own staff to aim a swift blow at Kit’s abdomen. Kit dodges, laughing.

“Better! At least you _might_ have a prayer at taking down a half-asleep padawan with that move.”

Plo bows elaborately. “You flatter me, Master Fisto!” The two of them fly at each other, staves whirring; when they break apart, they’re both panting, smiling.

Kit plants his feet and braces the staff in front of him. “So. Boba.”

“Boba.” Plo sighs. “How do I make him feel like he has a home here, instead of a prison?”

“Have you asked _him_ that?” Kit’s staff whirls towards Plo’s head, and Plo barely ducks in time.

“Not in so many words.” The words ‘how do I make you feel...’ aren’t likely to elicit a positive response, whatever follows them. “I asked him this morning if there was anything he wanted that I could provide.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t really answer.” Plo remembers the shrug, the baleful eyes. “On the plus side, he didn’t ask for a comm, or a blaster, or to be let loose from the Temple.”

“Or for Mace’s head on a platter,” Kit teases, going for the same leg-sweep again. This time, Plo manages to leap high enough to clear the staff by a hair’s breadth. He grimaces.

“Small mercies.”

“Have you considered that you might be expecting too much from him, too soon?” The question makes Plo falter mid-swing, and Kit easily springs out of the way of his strike.

“I don’t mean to expect _anything_ from him,” Plo says, a little stung. “He’s been through more than a child his age ever should; he needs time to begin to heal. All I want is to give him a space to do that.”

“But you want that space to be a _home_.”

“Because I think it’s what he needs – certainly, what he deserves.” Plo stops. Raising a hand, he sets the end of his staff on the floor to signal a break. “You think I’m at risk of this becoming an attachment.”

Kit’s eyes are achingly kind. “Plo, no one knows better than I do how hard it is to let a child go.”

“ _Kit..._ ”

“No. I am not fishing for sympathy, my old friend.” Kit rests his own staff in a similar way, and leans his cheek against it, watching Plo. “We love them with everything we have, and at the same time, we let them go – to heal in their own time, to grow in their own way. And sometimes that means danger, and it _always_ means pain. But we must let them try for themselves. There will come a time when we cannot...” and here he reaches out with the staff and taps Plo’s bandaged arm, “place ourselves between the pain and the child.”

It hurts. Not the tap, although that does hurt a bit and is meant to – but a memory. Nahdar’s last moments, the way Kit recounted them when he returned, heartbroken, to the Temple. The young knight, scarcely more than a child, facing down the full wrath of Grievous, with Kit frantic and unable to reach him in time…

Plo drops his staff and reaches out, sliding his hand under Kit’s tresses to wrap around the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together.

“Trust that the boy will make his own way home,” Kit says as they eventually pull away. “But that home may not look exactly as you have in mind. It will need to be something he carves out for himself. _Patience,_ Plo.”

And with that, he picks up his staff, spins it, and neatly knocks Plo to the mat.

“You were never good at patience!” Kit calls back to him as he strolls away. Plo rolls onto his back and, ruefully, starts to laugh.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo gets some advice from unexpected quarters. Boba gets some... things. And maybe they both get what they need.

_How do I make him feel like this is a home?_

It’s a question Plo still can’t ask Boba directly. In fact, after Kit, Plo doesn’t ask anyone else.

But over the next week – whether through chance or some odd congruence in the Force, or simply the sensitivity of the people around him – he finds himself receiving more answers than he’d imagined.

***

“I was thinking, General,” Wolffe says later that afternoon, as the two of them leave the post-mission debrief together. “For the kid. Have you thought about getting him other clothes?”

Plo tilts his head. “Is something wrong with Boba’s clothes?”

“It’s just...” Wolffe turns his own helmet in his hands, fingers tracing over the wolf’s-head design. “You’ve got him in those robes the Jedi younglings all wear, but that’s not who he _is_. Maybe he’d feel better in something he could make his own.”

Plo finds his gaze drawn to the familiar helmet as well. “A very wise thought. Thank you, my Wolffe.”

(He won’t realise until the thought startles him from meditation, a few hours later, that he’s just referred to Wolffe with the same possessive Wolffe has started using for him.)

***

Madam Jocasta is the next to approach Plo for anything Boba-related. “Have you considered expanding his formal instruction?” she asks when Plo comes to pick Boba up from the Archives. “The arts of war, and the sciences that underpin them, are not all there is to life – either for a Jedi or for anyone else.”

“What would you suggest, Madam Jocasta?”

“Well, you know that he has a liking for history.” She smiles fondly across the room, where Boba is collecting his datapad and stack of flimsi. “Something I seem to remember about another youngling, once upon a time, Master Plo.”

“I think it may be best if Boba is allowed to study history on his own, at least for now. My lecturing him on the Jedi version of the past would not be very well received.” Beyond that, it doesn’t seem _right._ A long history has bound Jedi and Mandalorians inexorably together; that’s Boba’s heritage, and the chance to hear it from his own father, from his own people, is one more small thing of a thousand small things that have been taken from him. Plo can’t countenance trying to show him that same history through a purely Jedi lens.

_This isn’t a prison, right, jetii?_

Madam Jocasta breaks in on his thoughts. “Languages, then. Poetry. Music. _Something_ beyond survival.” Her expression is still fond, but there’s a kind of ache there, now, too.

It must be hard for her, Plo thinks, to see every youngling who’s passed through her halls in recent years get spat out directly onto the front lines the minute they get their padawan braid. Boba is the exception to that. As strange as it is, he’s neither Jedi nor trooper – the only youngling around them who _isn’t_ being funnelled towards the war. It’s no wonder Madam Jocasta wants more for him.

Plo bows. “Indeed. I will ask what he’d like to learn.”

***

New clothes duly purchased (Boba was eventually persuaded to make the selections from the holonet shop himself, but once he sat down to the catalogue, he seemed to take actual time and trouble over the decision), and a few more Masters identified whom Plo might sound out about the possibility of more lessons to offer Boba, the next order of business is the move into their new quarters.

It’s been a slow process, getting approval for the move, and Plo has admittedly been somewhat obstructive. He rejected the first option the Temple staff showed him on the basis that the second bedroom didn’t have its own bathroom, and the next two for lack of the one luxury he was insisting on: a window with a sill wide enough to be converted to a seat. Perhaps Boba won’t want his window space once he has a room of his own, but Plo wants it to be _there_ for him _,_ nonetheless.

The staff, unused to Jedi making such demands of them – the Order’s policy is that staff should consider individual Jedi’s survival needs (which honestly pose logistical problems enough), and, in turn, Jedi should accept with gratitude whatever accommodations they’re offered – politely told him they would take his requests on board, and then let him stew for over a week.

The quarters they finally produce, however, are frankly gorgeous to a degree that’s almost uncomfortable. There’s a full kitchen rather than a kitchenette counter, and a living room with several sofas (Plo thinks of the Wolfpack and smiles). A full suite of rooms for Boba sits at one end; at the other, a bedroom and ensuite bathroom that have been hermetically sealed off for Plo. Best of all, these quarters are considerably higher up than Plo’s old rooms, and the three massive living room windows boast a view, not only over a few Temple courtyards, but out over the whole of the Galactic City.

Once Plo has helped the droids unload the last of his few possessions (Boba put everything of his own into a backpack and snarled at the droid who offered to take it for him), he sets the cushions on the sill of the window closest to Boba’s rooms, and pins up the curtain over the new reading nook.

Boba is already tucked up on the largest sofa, a needle and thread in his hand (apparently, his father’s lessons in battlefield make-do-and-mend extended beyond fixing weapons and armour). He’s been painstakingly doing… _something_ to his new clothes that Plo, whose expertise does not extend to Outer Rim youth fashion, doesn’t really understand. Something involving taking the sleeves off at least one of the jackets, and then slicing them up and adding them decoratively to other things, and there’s definitely paint he begged from the Wolfpack involved in the process somewhere. He glances up when Plo asks how the new quarters suit him, and then looks around in a desultory kind of way, and mumbles something.

“Pardon?”

Boba spits a mouthful of pins out into his palm. “’S’okay.” He surveys the room again, a little more carefully this time. “Yeah. ’S’okay.” Dropping his gaze back to his work, he adds quietly, “I like the windows.”

Plo beams.

***

The next bit of advice is perhaps the most unexpected.

Plo is surprised, although far from displeased, when Obi-Wan touches his shoulder and quietly asks to walk with him after the latest Council meeting. The younger Master has been on campaign for weeks, and Plo hasn’t seen him outside of a few hasty field transmissions (usually with the image wobbling frenetically as Obi-Wan and Skywalker sprinted away from one explosion or another).

“I hear you’ve taken on a new charge since I left,” Obi-Wan smiles. “How _is_ our young bounty hunter settling in?”

“With difficulty,” Plo tells him, and gives him a potted summary of the last few weeks. Before he’s even halfway through, Obi-Wan’s eyebrows have climbed into his hairline. He remains courteously silent, however, until Plo is done.

“While I’m always pleased to have your company, Obi-Wan,” Plo finishes, “I especially welcome it now. Your experience is greater than mine, in caring for a child who’s been through such trauma.”

“Well, indeed, but at least Anakin never tried to kill me.” Obi-Wan blows out a noisy sigh. “Not directly, at least. Murder through worry is quite a different story.”

“I believe Boba has that method covered as well.”

Obi-Wan looks sidelong up at Plo, through the lock of hair that seems to be forever falling over one eye. “Have you told him that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When Anakin was a child… well, then _and_ now. He doesn’t always find it easy to name what he’s feeling. I imagine that, growing up enslaved, it wasn’t safe to. Feelings could always be used against you.” Those pale eyes are far away. “It isn’t the same situation, but for someone like Boba – living among people you’ve been brought up to believe are your ancient enemies, who _are_ responsible, however unavoidably, for your father’s death...”

_This isn’t a prison, right?_

Plo winces at the echo. “A similar problem.”

“Quite. Well. I’ve always tried to set the example, by talking about my own feelings with Anakin – even those that are difficult to admit, when you’re trying to appear steady for someone else.” Plo is grateful for the sudden hand on his elbow, the small touch that feels like _understanding._ “Perhaps it would be no bad thing if Boba knew when you were frightened for him. _You,_ not the Jedi Order or the _vode_.” Obi-Wan stops in the corridor, and turns to face Plo. “And failing that, do you know, I found Hoth chocolate most effective in the early days. A cup can be quite reassuring.”

Plo laughs, but kindly. “I did figure that one out. I’m pleased it has your stamp of approval.”

***

Four days later, while Boba and Plo are eating lunch with the Wolfpack in the Temple canteen (well, Boba and the Pack are eating; Plo is merely there for company), Wolffe strides over and slams a bottle down on the table in front of Boba.

The boy picks it up, frowning. “What’s this?” The liquid inside is an alarmingly lurid shade of orange; the label promises, in Mando’a, ‘mouth-burn’ of epic proportions.

Wolffe shrugs, jutting his jaw out. “Jedi food doesn’t do spices,” is all he offers by way of explanation.

“That’s the good stuff right there, _vod_ ,” Sinker puts in, waving at the bottle.

“That sauce is like licking a volcano,” Warthog says in tones of hushed awe.

With a skeptical look, Boba opens the bottle and pours a little on his sandwich. When even that tiny amount makes Boost gasp, the boy smirks and drizzles over a bit more. Then he lifts the sandwich to his mouth, and Plo can swear that the _entire Wolfpack_ holds its breath.

“Huh.” Boba chews thoughtfully. “That’s pretty good.” And he smiles – really smiles – at Wolffe. “Thanks.”

Wolffe’s reply is lost in the midst of his brothers whooping and cheering like Boba has just wiped out a legion of battle droids on his own, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he looks at the child. Then Wolffe catches Plo watching him. The commander’s lips curve just slightly at the edges, and he lifts his chin fractionally in challenge. _Wanna make something of it?_

Plo has rarely wanted to wrap his arms around Wolffe quite as much as he does in that moment.

***

In the midst of this, Boba only asks for one thing for himself. It takes him most of a day to work up to it.

Plo notices the boy’s discomfort over breakfast, but says nothing. Gives him time. Boba’s restlessness increases throughout the day – picking up his datapad and then putting it down, watching Plo out of the corner of his eye when he thinks Plo isn’t looking.

Eventually, over dinner, Boba blurts out, “You know those books?”

“Which books are those?”

“The ones you put on the datapad when you first gave it to me. The _Mission of the Gr_ _e_ _y_ series.”

“Indeed.” They were his favourites as a youngling, added to the datapad that first night as part of an impulse to comfort. He didn’t even know Boba had read them.

“Are there… are there more? After the third one. Just – I finished that, and Madam Jocasta says the Archives don’t have them, and...”

“I believe there are eleven now. I shall order the rest for you tonight.” Plo can’t quite keep the delight out of his voice. He sets his tea down decisively. “Favourite character?”

“Rodon.” Boba’s chin juts out stubbornly, as if daring Plo to chide him for his choice. Rodon Starkiller is probably the greyest of the Grey Jedi depicted in the books, a renegade who continually flouts authority in his pursuit of justice.

Plo smiles. “Mine, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boba's experience of suddenly having access to hot sauce after weeks of bland food is very much drawn from my own life (as are people's reactions to his simple ability to eat some trillion-Scoville-plus thing and not die). :) My headcanon isn't that there are no Jedi who eat or enjoy spicy food, but more that, when you're running a canteen that has to cater to people of dozens of different species, you tend to stick with the most inoffensive, broad-appeal options within what each species can eat. Which inevitably means that the flavours are a bit muted. Suffice to say that between the food at the Temple, rations at the barracks, and nutrient packs in the field, the clones have to find a way to make their own flavour - and end up fuelling a roaring grey-market trade in Mandalorian hot sauces.
> 
> The Mission of the Grey books are sadly fictional. I mean OBVIOUSLY, they're fictional, they're not true histories of Grey Jedi running around in the real world, but they're actually fictional on three different levels: they're made-up stories (of course); they are a book series in the Star Wars universe (meaning you can't go buy a copy); _and_ they're not actually a book series in the canon Star Wars universe, only in my version of it. Basically, they're swashbuckling adventures set in a chivalrous age long past, written by someone with seemingly little to no firsthand knowledge of how the Jedi or the Force actually work. Tiny!Plo thought they were just The Best Thing.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A training accident brings out a different side of Boba, and Plo reckons with some hard truths - expected and unexpected.
> 
> (Alternate title: Shinies Ruin Everything, A Novel By Commander Wolffe.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this one: Depiction and discussion of injury and medical treatment; fighting practice; discussions of abuse of authority (characters being afraid that authority over them will be used in abusive ways, though this does not happen); discussion of power differentials in a relationship.

As useful as it is to keep up physical drills and refreshers on hand-to-hand combat, Plo’s men can’t spend their days sparring in the Temple training rooms for long. Even while they’re stationed on Coruscant, they also need to keep up their training in everything from marksmanship to heavy artillery to piloting – most of which requires them to be at the barracks rather than the Temple, all of which requires equipment Boba is still not allowed within grabbing distance of. So Wolffe’s been rotating soldiers in and out of those Temple training sessions, which are formally called _unarmed combat skills retention_ (and unofficially – by Wolffe at least – _Boba duty_ ).

The rotation means that on any given day, the troopers training with Boba and Plo are a mix of veterans and shinies. Today, for example, Sinker, Warthog, Comet and Boost are all off practicing jetpack manouevres (much to Boba’s jealousy). Wolffe is here, but many of the other men around them are fresh from Kamino. They’re hovering around the edges of the room, as if the presence of their general and their commander together in one place is acting as some kind of centrifugal force, pushing them outwards. The shyer of them are keeping their heads down, trying to get through their drills without making eye contact. A trio of the bolder ones, meanwhile – Tiger, Skip, and Blade, if Plo remembers correctly – are deliberately showing off their most athletic maneouevres whenever they feel their superiors’ gazes on them.

Wolffe eyes the three shinies, who’ve started running and vaulting over one another into somersaults, and then turns and rolls his eyes eloquently at Plo. Plo, who’s commandeered one of the benches in the back so he can work his way through the stack of requisition forms in front of him, gives Wolffe a smile, but can’t help but feel a pang as he watches the 104th’s newest members. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and so very young.

Boba, apparently sick of shadowboxing on his own, flops down on the bench opposite Plo. As he tugs his boxing gloves off and begins to unwind the tape from his hands, he uses one foot to nudge Plo’s bench slightly. “How come you never spar with us, _jetii_?”

“I do, from time to time. Just not recently.” And perhaps it has been too long, at that. It _would_ make for a welcome distraction from paperwork, and from Plo’s more melancholy thoughts. He stands up. “Would you like a demonstration?”

Boba looks up at him, his expression a mix of wary and intrigued; but Plo turns instead to Wolffe.

“Would you be so kind as to oblige me, Commander?”

A slow, predatory grin spreads over Wolffe’s features. “It’d be a pleasure, General.” He starts efficiently stripping down to his blacks as Plo unlatches his armoured bracers.

The usual teasing “Oooooh!” goes up from the assembled troopers once they realise that their general is going to hit the mats, and against their commander, no less. There’s a single wolf-whistle from the back of the room when Plo sheds his outer robe – now _that_ has to be one of the veterans. Plo bites down on his laughter.

Unarmoured, clad only in his tunic and leggings, he steps to the centre of one of the training mats. The men form a circle around. Even Boba is on his feet, watching with unmistakable interest. Wolffe dusts his hands together and comes to stand opposite Plo.

Mandalorian fights – whether in practice or in earnest – simply start as soon as they’re declared, often with vicious intensity right out of the gate. This is one of the few areas where Plo has introduced an element of Jedi custom, though. He and Wolffe both fold their hands formally. In the sudden hush, they bow to one another.

And _then_ Wolffe comes at him like a fighter jet barrelling through enemy fire.

This is an old dance for both of them. Plo and Wolffe have been sparring since Plo joined the 104th. As he told Plo later, Wolffe had assumed at the time that their first fight was some kind of dominance display – the new general asserting his control over his troops, demonstrating how these terrifying “Force” powers the Jedi had could easily crush any clone who dared to disobey. Wolffe went in certain he’d lose, and lose badly, but wanting to show his general that he was strong enough to take any amount of punishment. As a result, he fought with such desperate ferocity that he not only _wrecked_ his general – who was deliberately not using Force abilities in what he’d assumed to be a friendly match – but ended up knocking Plo on his ass hard enough to fracture his tailbone.

Plo, on the other hand, was utter _delight_ _ed_ that his new troops considered him one of them, enough not to hold back with him. He only stopped laughing at his own undignified defeat when he sensed poor Wolffe’s genuine terror that he’d _broken his general_ , and Plo had to rush to reassure him.

Through dozens of sparring matches since, they’ve learned one another: tactics and abilities, moods, eccentricities, rhythms. Plo is agile, and has that slight advantage in reach and speed that can end up turning a fight, but Wolffe is a sheer powerhouse, with an uncanny instinct for where best to apply his strength.

There are a couple of whoops from the men watching as Wolffe sledgehammers into Plo, letting the momentum carry them both to the mat; Plo is ready for him, though, and manages to hook his own legs around Wolffe’s and flip his commander over. They tussle in close quarters for a bit, Wolffe’s relentless attacks designed not to let Plo get far enough away that his longer reach becomes a factor in his favour.

Eventually, Wolffe manages to wrestle him down on his front, pinning Plo’s arm behind his back. “Had enough, General?” he pants.

Plo’s breathing is ragged. For just a second, he considers tapping out; but then he sees it. Instead, he curls the claws of his free hand into the mat, and uses the leverage to abruptly push his body up under Wolffe’s, at the same moment that he manages to wind his leg around and bring his foot down hard on top of Wolffe’s foot where it’sf bracing against the floor. It unbalances the commander just enough. Wolffe lets out a strangled yell as Plo surges to his feet.

“Oh, I think I have a bit more in me,” Plo gasps, planting his feet wide and spreading his arms, daring Wolffe to try and rush him again.

Wolffe wipes his fist over the corner of his mouth and grins, and doesn’t take the bait. They circle for a while, feinting, dancing around one another. Plo whirls in to strike; Wolffe darts away just in time, and then they reverse, flitting up and down the mat as the troopers around them shout encouragement. Until finally, Plo manages to be just a fraction of a second quicker, and Wolffe is on his back, Plo’s forearm braced under his chin.

Wolffe is breathing hard, under him. Those eyes, one dark and one white, fix on Plo’s, as if Wolffe can see straight through his goggles; and then Wolffe smiles, slow and lazy. Trusting.

He lifts his hand, and taps the mat.

Plo springs to his feet, reaching a hand down to help Wolffe up, and there are a few cheers (from the shinies) and one or two teasing remarks directed at Wolffe (from troopers who, to judge by the gleam in Wolffe’s eye, are going to be on latrine duty for the rest of the war).

As their audience breaks up, Wolffe lets Plo pull him to his feet, and even ventures to clap his general on the back as he rises.

“Well fought, my Wolffe,” Plo says, smiling.

“Likewise, sir,” Wolffe replies, and doesn’t move away.

Neither does Plo, and for just a moment, they’re standing with their hands still clasped together, Wolffe’s arm around Plo’s shoulders; close enough that Plo can feel Wolffe’s breath, still rough from the fight, ghosting over his skin…

Then Wolffe’s gaze slides away from Plo to something behind him, and his eyes shut in pained resignation. “Oh, for the love of – sorry, sir, one second – _put him down, Blade, I swear to the Maker, I will bust you so hard –”_

Plo closes his own eyes briefly, struck by a wave of cool air from the empty space Wolffe left as he stormed off. He reaches for the hum of the Force, the sound of his own racing heartbeat, and strives to bring the two into alignment. A long breath out.

_Enough, Plo. You’re his general. You could order him to his death, and he would have no choice but to obey. The same system that’s appointed you one of the elect doesn’t even consider him a person._ A spark of rage there, old rage; he breathes through it, lets it pass into the living Force. _As little as you may want to, you have him pinned, your arm across his throat. If this is to be a spar between equals, then you_ hold _and let him decide what comes next._

_If he wants more from you, he needs to be the one to say so._

Plo’s eyes open. Across the room, Wolffe is tearing verbal strips off Blade, who was holding Tiger aloft in some kind of precarious balancing act and now seems to have dropped him a little too hard when Wolffe’s shout startled him. Sighing, Plo returns to the bench where he left his things, and shrugs his robe back on.

“Not bad.”

Plo glances up to find Boba perched on the bench opposite. “Thank you,” he says, touched.

“Reckon I could take you in a fair fight, though.”

“Perhaps,” Plo replies mildly. The only times they’ve fought, physically – Plo and Ahsoka’s confrontation with Aurra Sing and Boba on Florrum, and Boba’s ill-starred attempt to stab Plo that first night – have ended in Plo using the Force to keep Boba out of the fight as gently as possible. It’s pretty natural that Boba should consider that _unfair._ “I would not be averse to a practice spar – another day, when I’m –”

A yell of pain drowns him out.

Plo’s head whips around, and he takes off running. One of the troopers is lying crumpled on the floor by the far wall. It’s Skip, Plo can tell as he draws near and crouches at the young man’s side. Skip’s left arm is at an unnatural angle, the shoulder clearly dislocated. He sees Plo and makes a visible effort to pull it together in front of his general, but there’s still a high, barely audible whine escaping through his clenched teeth, almost a worse sign than if he were screaming.

“What happened?”

Wolffe is next to Plo in an instant. “ _Di’kut_ tried to do a backflip from halfway up the wall. I didn’t see him until it was too late.” Under the intimidating growl of his voice, Plo can hear the note of self-reproach; can feel the guilt coming off Wolffe in waves. “I’ll call a medic from the barracks.”

Plo says, “No –” and there it is, just for a moment, between the word ‘no’ and the end of the sentence: Skip and a few of the shinies around him freeze, looking at Plo with what is unmistakeably fear. As if the young soldier might have somehow angered his general by getting hurt. As if Plo might _deny him medical attention_ as a punishment. It’s a fear he still sees occasionally; it never lasts beyond a soldier’s first few weeks in the 104th, but it disturbsPlo, every time. He finishes the thought hastily: “The Temple healers are nearer. Tell them I requested it.”Wolffe nods and turns to make the call.

Plo, meanwhile, gently picks up Skip’s right hand and holds it, giving the young man a sympathetic smile when he responds by gripping Plo’s hand so tight it aches. Grounded in the touch, Plo’s mind reaches out in the Force for Skip’s. There – the brightness of his pain is like a star, inches away, its presence searing. Plo stretches out into that heat and slowly begins to siphon it off, drawing the pain into himself. For just a second, he winces as the full force of it hits him; shared between their minds, though, that awful heat quickly begins to cool and dim. Skip’s hold on his hand relaxes just a little. That terrible whine stops, and the young trooper’s next breath is easier; the next, easier still. The pain is dulled rather than gone, but it is something.

“There’s a trick to it.”

Plo opens his eyes to see Boba kneeling on Skip’s other side, by his wounded shoulder. The boy is watching Plo, and there’s an uncertainty in his gaze – almost like he’s asking permission.

Plo nods slightly.

That seems to be enough. Boba turns his attention to Skip, and puts on a bright smile. “Hey, _vod._ That was a pretty sick backflip until the landing, hey?” While he talks, his fingertips are skating over the dislocated shoulder, feeling out the position of the bones. Plo can sense the touches as Skip feels them – they’re a little strange against his throbbing skin, but not painful in themselves. “You’ll get it next time. Haven’t seen you before – what’s your name?”

“Skip.” The voice is parched, young.

“I’m Boba. Hey, Skip, you know any good songs?” Boba is keeping his tone light, looking up every once in a while to make sure Skip’s eyes are still focused on him. “You know _Vode An_?”

“Yeah. ’Course.” Skip’s mouth lifts at one corner. Every clone knows the ancient Mandalorian war song, taught to the first of the _vode_ by Jango Fett and the trainers he personally recruited. Taught to later generations by their older brothers – under the radar, Plo’s always suspected, at least after Jango’s death. Even Plo knows it by heart by now.

“Do me a favour, and sing _Vode An_ with me? C’mon, I’ll start.” Without waiting for an answer, Boba just launches into the Mando’a lyrics, his tenor crackling a little over the higher notes, but his voice strong and ringing. “ _One indomitable heart –”_

“– _brothers all,_ ” Skip joins in. His own voice is rallying as he goes. “ _The wrath of Coruscant,_ _we_ _, brothers all!”_

The clones standing around them exchange puzzled glances, but after a moment they, too, shrug and begin to sing. Around the room, troopers stop running laps or wrestling, and pick up the tune.

Intrigued, Plo starts to sing along with them.

“ _And glory!_

_Eternal glory!_

_We shall bear its weight together,_

_Forged like unto a sabre_

_In the fires of death, brothers all._

_One indomitable heart, brothers all,_

_The wrath of –_ ”

There’s a sickening crack and a shriek, as Boba suddenly pops Skip’s shoulder back into place.

Plo feels the pain spike through the Force, then just as abruptly subside, melting into a low ache. Skip gasps. Then, hesitantly, he lifts his arm – grimacing a bit where sore muscles pull – and wiggles his fingers in front of his face.

“Huh! Not bad, _vod’ika_! Half scared the life out of me, but it feels a lot better now. You’ve got a good kid there, General,” Skip adds to Plo, who smiles and smooths away the last of the ache through the contact of their minds.

“You’ve got a good brother here,” Plo tells him, but he’s looking at Boba, who’s bright red. “That was well done, Boba.”

The boy shrugs. “My dad showed me. I was on a job with him, minding the ship, and when they got back one of the crew’d been injured. My dad had me watch when he set her shoulder. You gotta know how to take care of your people, he said.”

It’s perhaps more than Boba has ever said about Jango, certainly in one go. “And the song?”

“Singing makes you breathe deep. Plus, it’s a distraction so the person won’t tense up. Just have to make sure you do it in the middle of a line, when they’re not expecting it.” Boba’s smile is there and gone so fast Plo might have imagined it. “Never set a bone on the beat, he said.”

Plo laughs. “I’ll remember that.”

He watches Boba’s face change, from surprise, to an answering smile that actually lingers for a moment, to conflict and a flash of – of pain, quick but unmistakable. Boba drops his gaze and, after a little while, gets to his feet and walks away.

***

By the time the healer arrives – some twenty minutes later – Boba’s brief open mood has definitely evaporated, and the first words out of the man’s mouth don’t help.

“Hmmm,” the healer muses, carefully manipulating Skip’s shoulder and observing the range of motion. Skip is just grinning dozily up at him, the hypospray of painkillers he’s just received already taking effect. “It’s a decent job, Master Plo, but I do wish you’d waited for me to reset it.”

Across the room, Boba has steadied the heavy bag he’s been pummelling, and now he’s watching, eyes huge and worried.

Plo gently disengages from Skip’s mind and pats his hand, slipping his own out of Skip’s hold before standing. While taking a moment to brush down his robes, he says mildly, “We thought it would relieve his pain all the sooner to get it done. Since we had the means to do so _decently,_ as you say. I am much obliged for your time, however.” The healer gives him a sideways glance and raises an eyebrow; Plo looks back, the picture of innocence.

“Well. I’ll send additional doses of painkillers and some more bacta back with him.”

“Thank you. That will be most helpful.”

“And I must insist he stay back from the front line for the next week, or until he’s fully healed. If nothing else, it would be impossible to wield a rifle –”

“I have no intention of taking an injured man into battle.” Still the sweetest of tones – as if butter wouldn’t melt, he once heard Mace say.

Again the doubletake, and the healer’s lips thin, but he collects himself and merely bows. “Then I’ll leave you, Master.”

Plo returns the bow. “My thanks again.”

Two of Skip’s brothers help him up – one taking charge of the box of painkillers and the other, with a long-suffering sigh, letting the shiny use him as a living support pillar while he’s still unsteady on his feet.

“I’ll see he gets back to the barracks all right,” Wolffe tells Plo. The commander pauses for a moment, glancing over at Boba. He calls over, “Hey, kid. Nice job there.”

Boba’s eyes go wide. Then he presses his lips together and nods, his gaze solemn and shining.

***

  
  


No sooner do they return home than Boba makes a beeline for his room, datapad in hand, announcing his intention to start the next _Mission of the Grey_ book before dinner.

“Tell me when you’ve read the scene with the spaceship,” Plo calls after him cheerfully.

“Half the book is set on a spaceship, _jetii_!”

“No – _the_ scene with the spaceship. You’ll know it when you come across it.” Plo stretches out on on the sofa, and pulls up the latest communique from Adi Gallia at the front.

He has the sense that the 104th’s deployment on Coruscant is likely to come to an end soon – either they’ll be needed to reinforce Adi, or to take advantage of the gap that her battalion has managed to open in the blockade of several key Outer Rim worlds. In truth, Plo is grateful that the Council has given him this long, whatever their misgivings may have been.

If it weren’t for Boba, he would almost welcome the return to the front lines. Pitched battle is less fraught than trying to ferret out Separatist plots or pursue criminals closer to home. It lets Plo play the role he prefers: advance cavalry, free to manouevre, to interpose himself between his men and enemy fire without having to worry about shielding civilians around them at the same time. Both types ofbattlefields are dangerous, but there’s something reassuring in being able to face that danger head-on.

And over the last year, being on Coruscant has become a hard thing, in its way. For the Wolfpack, it means no escape from the daily casualty lists posted in the main barracks, or the empty chairs in the mess hall. It means being the first audience for their returning brothers, and absorbing story after story of good men dying, the heroism, the waste. For Plo, increasingly it means being surrounded by the empty eyes of grieving masters without their padawans, and lost padawans without their masters, and trying to offer what little comfort he can.

He’d as soon be offworld. If it weren’t for Boba.

Plo glances at the closed door to Boba’s room, and feels a pang of fondness. It’s sharp-edged, almost painful – like the ache of releasing your grip, when you’ve been clutching a handhold too tightly.

For Plo, _and_ for the Wolfpack, Boba has changed the equation in more ways than one.

His comm pings, and he taps it. “Good evening, Wolffe. How is Skip feeling?”

“ _He’s doing fine, General. Out like a light the minute he hit the sheets. There’s something you need to know, though.”_

The tone of his voice sends a prickle down the back of Plo’s neck.

“ _While we were getting Skip into his bunk, we realised his comm wasn’t on his wrist. Can’t find it anywhere. His squadmates say he definitely had it when he came in to train this afternoon. We took a troop transport here, not public, and I’m pretty sure no one got close to him the whole way except for us. I don’t like to say it, General, but it rather narrows it down.”_

“It does indeed.” Plo has a flash of Boba kneeling next to the injured man’s left arm. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll… look into it.”

This time, when he looks at Boba’s closed door, something twists in the pit of his stomach. He gets to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Vode An" is a Mando’a war song/chant first created (as I understand it) by Karen Traviss in the Republic Commando series of novels, and later set to actual music for the Republic Commando video game. I tweaked the canon translation a little bit to make it more word-for-word with the Mando’a version because that gives the translation a more archaic feel, which I like.
> 
> Some of the Star Wars comics – specifically, the Stark Hyperspace War arc of the old ongoing series, from around the early 2000s – portray Plo as a powerful telepath, with a combination of strong Force sensitivity and native Kel Dor telepathy giving him unique abilities above and beyond the kind of empathic sensing and suggestion most Jedi can use. One way he’s shown using this ability is reaching into the minds of wounded soldiers to ease their pain. The Clone Wars series downplays Plo’s telepathy (for obvious reasons – it can be a bit of a plot-breaker!), but I wanted to play with the pain mitigation aspect specifically.
> 
> The concept that Mandalorian one-on-one fights simply start, without ceremony, comes from the Pre Vizsla/Darth Maul duel in Clone Wars, where no sooner did they agree to the terms of the duel than they spiritedly started trying to kill each other. Now, it’s possible that the scene was meant to imply that this was Vizsla cheating, but since that’s never made clear, I prefer to assume that Mandalorian duels just go from 0 to absolute brutality in 0.2 seconds.
> 
> My medical knowledge is functionally nothing beyond what I google, do not attempt to relocate a limb based on this description, no matter what part of the song you’re at. :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo confronts Boba - and discovers from Mace that the stakes of the situation are higher than he imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some painful family arguments. (As with all of the warnings on this fic, if you're unsure whether this is something you want to read, feel free to come find me on Tumblr - also Decepticonsensual - and ask any questions you like, and I can give you whatever details will help you decide.)

For just a moment, Plo cherishes the hope that he might be wrong.

That hope dies in the brief seconds between Plo keying open the door to Boba’s room, and Boba hearing it open and falling silent. In those seconds, Plo can just make out the boy’s voice saying, “– into the Temple, I don’t –”

He breaks off with a muffled gasp. The door slides back, revealing Boba sitting on the edge of the bed; his hands are braced behind him, as if he’s only just scrambled into that position.

“Boba,” Plo says heavily. “Give me the communicator.”

“What communicator?”

“The one you took from Skip. The one I _heard_ you using just now.” Plo extends a hand. “Please.”

Boba’s eyes are huge. His mouth soundlessly shapes fragments of thoughts – _I – I don’t –_ and then he swallows hard. One hand comes from behind his back. Skip’s wristband is clutched in white-knuckled fingers.

Plo waits as Boba gets to his feet and takes a halting step towards him, then another. Waits, as the boy reaches the comm unit towards Plo’s waiting hand…

Quick as lightning, Boba throws the comm to the floor and brings his booted heel down on it.

“Ooops,” he says flatly.

“ _Boba_!”

It’s the first time Plo has ever raised his voice to the child, and they both freeze for a moment, in the wake of it.

Plo crouches down. The wristband is sparking fitfully; he tilts it with one claw. It’s well and truly shattered, any hope of retrieving the record of the last communication gone.

“I think you need to tell me,” Plo says with dangerous softness, “who it is you’re so worried I’ll find out you’ve been speaking to, that you would do this.”

Boba shrugs, a movement at the corner of Plo’s eye as he continues studying the destroyed comm.

“No. No games, Boba. I thought...” Plo trails off. _I thought what? I thought you were past this?_ _I thought you’d stopped wanting to leave? I thought_ _we’d made a home_ _–_

He shuts his eyes. “This ends now. Who have you been calling?”  
  


“It won’t happen again,” Boba blurts out. “I promise, I –”

“That isn’t the point! Boba –” And here Plo looks up, and stops in his tracks.

Boba is gulping air like he’s drowning. His face is bloodless, hands clenched into fists at his sides. In the space of seconds, he’s gone from startled to –

Force. The boy is _terrified._

Plo rocks back on his heels, and says in a very different voice, “Who is it?”

“I can’t –”

“If someone is making you do this –”

“No one’s making me! Look, it’s okay now. It won’t happen again!”

“Tell me. _Please._ You can trust me.”

“And what about me, huh, _jetii_?” Plo can feel it like a physical thing, a twist in his own veins, the moment that fear curdles into rage. Angry tears are beginning to glisten in the boy’s eyes. “Why can’t _you_ ever just trust _me_?”

“I did trust you.” Plo can’t keep the frustration out of his voice.“ _Skip_ trusted you, too. And you used your own injured brother just so you could go behind my back.”

For just a second, Boba’s eyes widen as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

Then his face changes. Eyes hooded, lip curling. He looks like the holo recording Plo saw of Boba standing beside Aurra Sing, blaster to the head of a captive soldier, demanding justice for his father.

“So that’s really what you think of me.” Boba’s voice is cold, almost hiding the minute tremble underneath.

“Boba –”

“Just – get the kriff out.” The boy turns his back just as his tears start to spill over, and the ache under Plo’s breastbone feels like fire.

He gets to his feet slowly, one hand lifted; the other scoops up the remains of the communicator from the carpet. The last thing Plo sees as he turns to leave is Boba throwing himself face-down on the bed.

In the living room, Plo shuts the door behind him and then slides down it, boneless, until he’s sitting on the floor, back pressed to Boba’s door. The muffled sound of crying from beyond it is hauntingly loud in the sudden silence.

“Boba.” Plo turns his head to speak through the door. He’s not sure if Boba can hear him. “I’m sorry. I was… I’m frightened for you.” He stares at his own claws tracing patterns on the floor; thinks of Tyvokka, so very long ago. “I ask you not to give up on me.”

There’s no answer. Plo bows his head, feeling as wretched as he’s felt in a long time.

***

The crushed communicator sits on a table between them, a hand of twisted metal raised in silent reproach.

Mace Windu folds his hands in front of his lips. “And you couldn’t get from the boy who he’d been communicating with?”

“I regret not.”

Mace regards Plo for a long moment over his clasped hands. “I need to know that you understand how serious this is.”

Plo meets his gaze steadily.

“When you called me, I didn’t report what you said to the Council,” Mace continues. “I’ve kept this between us, for the same reason I spoke up in your favour when you first wanted to take the boy in. I’ve trusted you in this, Plo. But now I need you to be honest with me.” His eyes remind Plo of the lake near his childhood home – the surface placid, the depths cool and capable of stealing away your breath. “More than that. I need you to be honest with _yourself._ Has this experiment failed? Is Boba truly beyond our reach?”

“No,” Plo answers immediately. “I do not believe that.”

“His desperation to cover his tracks must put paid to any hope that these communications might have been innocent.”

“Perhaps. But even if you’re correct – even a worst-case scenario –”

“A worst-case scenario might mean that highly confidential information has been leaked to parties that mean to do us harm. Information about the Order, or the Temple – _or_ the Republic’s military forces.”

Plo starts in his seat at that last one. “What?”

“You’ve allowed the boy to spend considerable time with the soldiers under your command. Plo, the implications are frankly frightening.” And there it is – the plunge into the icy waters underneath the peaceful surface. Plo feels, for a second, like he’s drowning.

_So that’s really what you think of me._

He pictures Boba kneeling beside an injured Skip, smiling and distracting him while Boba steals his wristband. He makes himself take the pain of that, like a knife still stuck in a wound, and twist it. Could it be that _all_ of Boba’s apparent affection for the Wolfpack is a lie? That Boba will betray them? Has planned to, all along? And it hurts, it _hurts,_ but Plo makes himself weigh it.

“No,” he says finally. “I can promise you, whomever he’s contacted, Boba would not put his brothers in danger like that.”

“His own history says otherwise.”

“The history of a grief-stricken child, manipulated to do things he later regretted!” Plo forces his voice calm. “We took him in knowing what he’s done, Mace. We knew it could be a long road. Boba is not an _experiment,_ to be declared a success or a failure.”

“You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Plo does, and relents. Pleads quietly, instead, “If you could only see him with the Wolfpack, Mace. He’s… gentle with them. Kind. _Happy._ I’ve seen who Boba is, when he has the help he needs to move beyond his anger and his grief. He just needs time.”

Mace just gives him a level stare, not unkind. And suddenly, Plo knows, before Mace can even say it.

“The 104th battalion is needed at the front. You’re out of time, Plo.”

In the silence, Plo exhales, long and resigned.

“Very well. I’ve already made arrangements for Madam Jocasta to look after Boba while I’m away. We can resume this discussion when I return.”

“That is out of the question, Master Plo.” Plo turns to stare at Mace, who raises a hand. “Staying in the heart of the Temple, with one Jedi Master responsible for watching him every hour of the day, and several others who have voluntarily chosen to share in that responsibility, the boy still managed to send communications to unknown parties _twice._ And now you would propose to leave him here in your absence, in the care of a single Archive keeper?”

Plo pinches the skin between his eyes hard between thumb and forefinger. “The GAR barracks, then. It may be a bit… delicate; the other battalions don’t know him yet, but I’m sure once they do, Boba will enjoy –”

“Absolutely not. If the Temple is insufficiently secure, the barracks will be worse. Hiding among other clones is the same trick that allowed Boba to get onto the _Endurance_ in the first place.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“There is… the option of official Republic custody.”

“ _No._ ”

“Temporary –”

“There is no _temporary,_ if we allow the Republic to get its hands on Boba. The government considers him its property, you know that!”

“If the alternative is that he goes running off into the night –”

“ _If_ that were the alternative,” Plo grits out, even though his throat tightens at the thought of Boba roaming the streets of Coruscant alone, “it would be preferable to seeing him in prison.”

“Plo, the boy brought down a battle cruiser single-handed,” Mace says quietly. “At the age of eleven. And if he gets loose he will, eventually, come for his revenge. Do you want to be fighting him in five years? Ten?”

The crackle of anger builds – but then it passes through Plo, like lightning, leaving a sudden, cool darkness in its wake.

He leans forward, and puts his hand over Mace’s.

“Fear is not the Jedi way, Mace.”

Something flickers deep in Mace’s lake-eyes. His lips twitch, but when he answers, he doesn’t precisely deny Plo’s characterisation. “We are generals, now. Generals have to weigh risks. One life cannot be allowed to endanger all the other lives under our care.”

“True – but fear cannot be allowed to stop us from helping someone when we can. That principle, _that_ is the reason we’ve fought so hard to keep the army under our command, instead of letting Tarkin and his ilk conduct the war, with their calculus of acceptable losses. We are generals, but we are Jedi first. If we let caution make us cruel, then we really have lost our way.”

Mace stares hard at Plo, and finally nods. “I will… think on it.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo's late master always told him that there are other ways to reach people than with words.
> 
> He might not have said that, if he'd known what Plo has in mind.
> 
> Or, Plo takes drastic measures to repair his relationship with Boba. (Somewhere, Tyvokka's ghost is muttering Wookie invectives.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several content warnings for this chapter:
> 
> There's a brief discussion of infertility and parenthood. Basically, Plo reflects on the clones’ being created sterile, and the message that’s meant to convey to them about what their role in life is. Plo knows full well – as does any good Jedi or good Mando – that blood is far from the only way of becoming a parent, and does not see the clones’ infertility as barring them from parenthood if that’s what they want (nor does he look down on them in any way). Nevertheless, it’s a difficult topic and touches on a lot of things about the way the Kaminoans approached the clones’ creation that are dehumanising, so if you want to skip over the whole discussion, go from Wolffe saying, “my gut says that wasn’t an act” to “Plo has grown unused to his words failing him so often, or so badly.”
> 
> General warnings for discipline and for children being terrified.
> 
> Additional (spoilery) content warning in the end notes.
> 
> Also, glossary has been updated!

Boba doesn’t emerge for dinner; Plo leaves a tray by his door, and by morning, it’s gone. All except the mug of Hoth chocolate Plo added to it. That sits pointedly in the middle of the floor, untouched and cold.

With a hollow feeling in his chest, Plo takes away the cup, and leaves Boba’s breakfast in its place. That, too, vanishes as soon as he’s out of the room. It’s painfully like those first few days Boba lived with him; as if everything that happened in between was simply a dream.

Plo suddenly feels exhausted beyond all measure. But if he has to tread every single step of that road over again, he will.

He tries, through the door, “Your lesson with Kit is due to start in half an hour. Do you still want to go?”

No answer. Plo ends up cancelling with Kit, who obviously knows something’s up, but merely says, “Do what you need to for the boy, Plo.” And then adds, almost like an afterthought, “The Council has me accompanying a diplomatic mission tomorrow. If I don’t see you before then, Plo, may the Force be with you.”

“May the Force be with you, Kit. _K_ _’oyacyi._ ”

Even reproduced in grainy blue light at a fraction of the scale, Kit’s smile is achingly bright. “I’ll certainly try, my friend.” Then he cuts the transmission, and Plo is left alone.

Some time later, Plo knocks on Boba’s door again. “Madam Jocasta tells me she has found a book on Mandalore the Great you would like. In Mando’a, this time.”

Still no response. Boba hasn’t somehow managed to slip away; Plo can feel his presence in the Force, that tightly-coiled ball of anger throbbing like an open wound. But he doesn’t so much as stir at Plo’s offer, even to tell him to go kriff himself.

An hour later still: “Do you want to train with the _vode_ today?” Plo pauses. He knows it’s playing a little dirty, but… “Your brothers will miss you, if you don’t.”

There’s a long silence, and then just as Plo is about to give up, the creak of the bed, and boots shuffling grudgingly across the carpet. The door opens.

Boba has his arms folded, and his face is disturbingly blank. He eyes Plo up and down, and then pushes past him to go wait by the front door.

Their trip down to the training room is silent.

That changes the minute the door opens, and delighted shouts and greetings wash over them from every side. Every man in the room has at least a nod and smile for Boba as they stop to pay respects to their general, many noticeably warmer than they were even a day ago. It seems like news of Boba’s emergency treatment of Skip has gotten around the barracks – and _only_ that news. Wolffe has apparently kept the rest of the story to himself.

As for Wolffe, he glances up from his supervision of a pair of wrestling troopers, and fixes Boba with a glare that’s sheer thunder.

As Wolffe stalks over to them, Boba visibly cringes back. Plo catches Wolffe’s sleeve. The two exchange looks, just for a moment. Then Plo nods and steps away, giving them a measure of privacy.

Behind him, he can make out Wolffe asking, “Really? Nothing to say to me, kid?”

Boba mumbles something Plo can’t hear.

Wolffe’s voice softens fractionally; it’s still gruff, but without the sting in the tail. “He’ll be fine. Docs said his shoulder will heal up nicely.”

Another murmured question.

“No, of course not. Wasn’t _his_ fault.” There’s a pause. “What in the kriff did you think you were doing, anyway?”

Stubborn silence. Plo sighs inwardly, just as Wolffe does out loud. The commander continues, “You’re lucky you’ve got the general looking after you. If a cadet tried anything like this with me, do you know how many weeks you’d be on KP? Or latrine duty?”

Plo can’t quite make out what Boba says in response, but the venom in that low hiss is unmistakable.

Wolffe’s voice shifts again, into something low and grave. “Don’t say that –”

And Plo moves further away, until he can no longer hear them. Eavesdropping in hopes of getting some kind of a read on Boba’s intentions is perhaps forgiveable; to listen in on Boba’s views of his guardianship would be purely selfish.

Plo can guess, anyway.

A while later, Wolffe comes over to him. The commandertips his head back, letting out a long, frustrated breath. “He wanted to know if the missing comm would get Skip in trouble.”

“And he didn’t feel he could ask me.” Plo stares at the floor. “After all, I’d probably just accuse him of faking his concern to serve some hidden agenda.”

“Hey.” The note in Wolffe’s voice is familiar, but it’s not one Plo can ever recall hearing directed at him before. It’s the half-stern, half-coaxing tone of a commander trying to get a shell-shocked shiny to stand up, and stagger on at least until they can find cover. “It’s not like that didn’t cross my mind as well, General.”

“But he isn’t.”

Wolffe shakes his head, his gaze strangely soft. “Kriffed if I know what he _is_ doing, but my gut says that wasn’t an act.”

Plo forces a smile, and says lightly, “You’ve found a better understanding with him than I have, Commander. Perhaps you should have been his guardian.”

Wolffe twitches, and just for the briefest of seconds – so brief that someone who knew him less well might have missed it – a stricken expression flashes across his face.

Plo silently curses himself. _Born into war, a war without an end in sight. Born a weapon, and created sterile to drive home that their bodies are only meant to be for one thing. And even when this is all over, the uncertainty about whether the Republic can be made to let them go, to lead_ _their own_ _lives. How many of the clones would love to be fathers, someday? Will any of them get that chance?_

_How deep a wound did I just poke my finger into so carelessly?_

“I’m sorry, my Wolffe –” he starts, but Wolffe cuts him off.

“It is what it is, General. Excuse me.”

Plo watches Wolffe walk away – stiffly, like he’s holding himself together – and in the process catches Boba’s eye across the room. The look Boba gives him could curdle Tauntaun milk.

Plo has grown unused to his words failing him so often, or so badly.

_That’s precisely because you rely on words too much, Plo Koon,_ Tyvokka’s voice comes to him unbidden. _Words can obfuscate. There are more direct ways to reach the heart._

He sits on a bench, watches Boba run through the motions of a couple of abortive sparring matches. Plo can feel the frustration streaming off the boy. The sheer force simmering under every pulled punch and softened practice throw is palpable. In the end, Boba abandons the opponents he has to be gentle with in favour of pummelling the heavy bag. He loses patience with it, too, and gives it a kick that he’s lucky doesn’t break his toes.

Reaching down, Plo almost idly starts undoing the bracer from his right wrist.

There _are_ more direct ways. There are gestures of equality, of belonging. Gestures that can function as an apology, when words seem to slide off.

Tyvokka certainly wouldn’t approve of what he has in mind, and Plo directs a silent apology towards his late master. Plo and Tyvokka were never very alike, to the former’s shame and the latter’s continual annoyance. Boba, though – Plo suspects that in this, if in nothing else, he and Boba may speak the same language.

Slowly, he peels the right bracer off and sets it aside, and then goes to work on the left. He watches the movements of his own hands, practiced and precise.

At the very least, he can give the child a chance to work out his frustrations on the person he actually wants to hit.

He sets both bracers aside, and stands up.

Boba is slumped on a bench across the room; he looks up briefly when Plo says his name, and then turns away again.

“Still interested in that sparring match?” Plo cocks his head, as Boba’s gaze snaps back to his immediately. “It’d make a change. You wouldn’t need to hold back.”

Boba leans forward, staring at Plo as if he’ll be able read the look in his eyes through the goggles, if he just focuses hard enough. Then – just as Plo thinks he’s about to refuse – he says the first words he’s spoken to Plo in almost a day.

“You’re gonna regret that offer, _jetii._ ” And he gets to his feet.

This time, there are no cheers, no teasing shouts – only a hushed, murmuring ripple through the troops as the two of them take their places on the mat. The men seem to grasp what’s about to happen immediately, and they silently circle around, looking uncertain but unwilling to miss a moment. Wolffe’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline, as he meets Plo’s eye; Plo just gives him a _trust me_ nod.

Boba is pacing like a caged wolf. He points at Plo. “No Force bullshit.”

“No Force bullshit,” Plo agrees. “First to tap out.”

“Or get knocked out.”

Well. Boba’s welcome to try. “Agreed.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

There’s no bow to begin this match. Plo didn’t expect one, but he also didn’t expect just how _fast_ Boba can move: the boy is across the mat before Plo can blink, launching at him with both feet. Plo dodges easily, but Boba lands with just as much ease, as if he anticipated missing his first shot. The next few blows are the same – lightning-fast darts in and out, testing Plo’s reflexes, his reach, his blind spots. With more effort than he expected, Plo ducks and twists away from each attack. He’s giving away more than he should with every motion, and they both know it; Boba cracks his knuckles and starts hurling himself at Plo in earnest, hitting hard and fast at the edges of Plo’s guard and then ricocheting away.

Plo switches from deflecting Boba’s attacks to grappling, and manages to catch him around the waist and throw him – gently, as gently as he would if he were training the smallest of the younglings. Boba huffs in embarrassed exasperationas he lands. He’s on his feet in the space of a breath, diving back in with less care than he should, and Plo scoops him up and throws him again. Boba lets out a full-throated _yell_ of rage. At the moment Plo releases him, his fingertip grazes the bare skin of Boba’s forearm –

– _not fair I was trying to be GOOD I was TRYING –_

The brush with Boba’s mind is like touching a live wire; Plo jerks, and his mental walls slam back into place, but not before that burning fragment of a thought slips through. _Careless_ , Plo chides himself. He should have been more diligent with his defences – but then, Boba’s thoughts are normally more submerged, taking no more than ordinary measures on Plo’s part to ensure he isn’t skimming them accidentally. At the moment, though, they’re a maelstrom, churning just under the surface. Plo forces himself to file the fleeting impression he got away, for now, as he sinks back into a defensive stance.

Boba is up and pacing again. As Plo turns to mirror him, Boba pauses. Then he charges in, with even less caution and greater fury than last time.

At least, it seems that way. Plo reacts with the same sidestep, the same grapple and throw, not seeing the gleam in Boba’s eyes until it’s too late. Boba’s body twists in midair, using the momentum of the throw to fuel the motion. Before Plo realises it, Boba’s managed to bowl his legs out from under him.

They both go sprawling, but Boba recovers first and gets inside Plo’s guard, keeping him pinned down so that Plo’s much longer limbs can’t give him an advantage. Plo quickly finds himself on his back, Boba’s knee on his chest; Plo could twist and unseat him, but then Boba’s clawed hand strikes towards his face, poised to rip off his breathing mask –

And Boba freezes, his fingers hovering uncertainly. The anger in his expression has been replaced by something hesitant and new.

Plo reaches out a hand and taps the mat.

Blinking in surprise, Boba clambers off him. Plo sits up. He rubs the sore spot on his chest and smiles, a little ruefully. “Well fought, Boba.”

Boba eyes Plo while they both catch their breath. “You – you didn’t _let_ me win, did you?”

“No; it was over the moment you indicated that you could grab my mask.” Plo raises his own hand, mimicking the same spread-fingered posture. “And you’re right. My defence wasn’t careful enough. If we’d been fighting for real, you could have torn it right off.”

_If we’d been fighting for real._ There’s a moment of stillness between them, where Plo wonders if Boba is going to say that they _are_ ; but then the boy laughs, a bit shakily. “Yeah. Well. Good thing you’ve got me here, right, to catch you on shit like that?” His voice rises at the end, and his eyes are wide and unsure.

Plo nods firmly. “A very good thing.”

Boba smirks, and if it looks like it’s mostly false bravado, Plo isn’t about to call him on it. “Best of three?”

Plo is faintly grateful that Boba allows him enough time to get to his feet – barely – before he’s aiming an uppercut at Plo’s face, and they’re off again.

Just like that, it seems like Boba’s anger has cooled. Inwardly, Plo is beaming, although when it comes to the fight itself, Boba’s improved mood is making things worse for Plo. It turns out Boba fights even better when he’s calm. He’s got an uncanny knack for identifying Plo’s weak points and using his own speed to take merciless advantage of them.

The mood in the room has changed, too. The troopers watching them have palpably relaxed. There’s chatter and laughter now, the occasional whistle or shout of encouragement. From what Plo can make out, it sounds like most of them are rooting for Boba, and it warms Plo. He’s abruptly and utterly grateful for these men.

With effort, Plo manages to win their second bout. It looks like he’s on the way to winning the third, but then Boba glances up from where he’s fallen on the mat and grins… and he _flips_ like an acrobat, springs off his hands, and kicks Plo squarely in the stomach. Plo goes down like a sack of rocks.

He rolls over and slaps the floor in front of him. “All right! Enough _._ ” He groans, letting his forehead rest against the mat.

Boba drops down onto the floor next to him, splaying out bonelessly. After a second, he lets out a muffled giggle.

Plo snorts.

And then they’re both laughing, helplessly, at absolutely nothing except for how giddy the sudden release of tension feels. Sinker calls, “Now you know how we feel, General! Kid’s been kicking my _shebs_ for weeks –” and Plo loses it again, laughing until his already sore stomach aches.

Still chuckling, Boba gets to his feet – without help, of course, as always. But this time, he turns around, and extends a hand to help _Plo_ up.

Plo tilts his head in surprise, but grabs it without hesitation.

He only meant to take Boba’s hand as a gesture, not to actually make the child take his weight; but Boba gives an almighty heave and Plo finds himself pulled to his feet before he’s even ready, stumbling a little until he can right himself.

Boba looks up at him.

Before Plo can say anything, the boy says in a soft rush, “I promise. That – that thing you asked me to promise before, that I hadn’t put the Temple in danger, and I wouldn’t say it. I promise that now.”

Plo’s heart melts at the generosity of it. “Thank you. I’m sorry I ever suggested that you would only help Skip in order to take his comm. I know you care about him. You _are_ a good brother, Boba.”

Boba drops his gaze, and takes in a long breath, then another. When he’s able to raise his eyes again, his smile is tremulous, almost like there are tears at the edges. But it’s there.

Faintly, Plo hears Wolffe say, “General on deck,” and the shuffle of men coming to attention. That – that doesn’t seem right, he’s been here –

Boba looks past Plo, and stiffens with a gasp.

Mace Windu is standing in the doorway, watching.

Plo drops a hand to Boba’s shoulder and squeezes – both comfort and restraint. The boy is breathing quickly, like a cornered animal. His distress is bleeding wildly into the Force around them.

Mace says, “Hello, Boba.”

Boba’s breath catches. Plo says icily, “A word with you in private, Master Windu?”

Mace lifts his gaze from Boba slowly, as if he’s reluctant to take his eyes off the boy. “Yes. I think that would be wise, Master Plo.”

***

“What were you _thinking,_ Mace?”

Mace closes the door to his quarters behind them, seemingly unconcerned by Plo’s anger. “You said you wished I could see how the boy was with the Wolfpack.”

“I was speaking rhetorically!”

“But it was a good idea. I needed to get Boba’s measure, outside of his interactions with me. I was able to watch for a time before I made my presence visible.”

“And then you felt the need to announce your presence anyway? You couldn’t simply observe him from a distance?”

One corner of Mace’s mouth curves up very slightly. “I needed to get the measure of his reaction to his most hated enemy, too.”

Plo tips his head back. He allows himself a single sound of absolute frustration – it sounds vaguely like a rancor dying in his throat – and then stills himself.

Quietly, he says, “You upset him. Badly.”

“I did, and I’m sorry for the necessity of it. But that’s just it, Plo. I _upset_ him.”

Plo straightens, looking at him.

Mace elaborates, “I didn’t send him into a murderous rage.”

“If that was your test – whether he was going to run up and try to strangle you, surrounded by troopers and with me holding him back –”

“No, of course not. But it’s more than that: I sensed his distress, but not the hate I’d felt radiating off him, when we met briefly face-to-face following his arrest. I had my doubts before this. But something truly has changed.”

Trying not to let the startled sense of gratification Mace’s words spark in him completely obscure his reasons for being angry with Mace in the first place, Plo folds his arms. “And? Are you satisfied?”

Mace gives him a long, assessing look. “Boba can stay in the Temple under Madam Jocasta’s care while you’re on campaign. _But._ I, or another member of the Council in my absence, will be monitoring him as well.” He lifts a hand to forestall protest. “If nothing goes wrong, he won’t need to see me; a brief call with Madam Jocasta daily should be enough. I would simply feel more at ease knowing that she has backup.”

Plo pauses, and then bows. “Forgive me for my anger, Mace. That is kind of you.”

Mace smiles serenely, and bows back. “No, you were correct, Plo. While we must be cautious, we cannot let fear change who we are as Jedi.”

***

The third attempt on Plo’s life happens that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content warning:
> 
> This chapter focuses heavily on a sparring match that has much more of an undercurrent of (potential) real violence than normal. That undercurrent is entirely one-sided; the anger and potential for actual violence is all coming from Boba, who is, after all, a child sparring with an adult who's being very careful not to hurt him. Nevertheless, it's more intense than previous depictions of sparring.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third attempt on Plo's life clarifies a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for references to/threats of violence, suffocation risk, grieving, and a child being in physical danger.

Plo wakes in a rush.

He knows immediately that _something_ woke him; in the half-light awareness just before he becomes fully awake, it’s a sensation, a presence in the living Force that isn’t supposed to loom so close, a throb of pain that isn’t his own. And then, like falling, he returns to the awareness of his own body, his own senses. The wrongness that woke him up coalesces into a soft, choking breath in the dark.

And then the muffled thud of a body crumpling to the floor.

Plo is on his feet, lightsaber drawn, and in its light he sees –

“Boba!”

The child is sprawled on the floor, a kitchen knife discarded beside him as both his hands claw convulsively at the carpet. The desperate wheeze of his breath eclipses everything else. It drives Plo, as he flicks his saber off and drops it, and in the same motion scoops up Boba’s now unresisting body. Taking a deep breath, Plo slams the emergency release on the door and plunges into the Coruscanti air beyond.

Boba’s eyes are closed, and his body is worryingly limp in Plo’s arms. Still, when they hit the oxygen atmosphere, Boba gasps; and by the time Plo lays him down on the sofa, the boy’s breathing is ragged, but it no longer sounds like he’s choking for breath.

Plo props Boba’s head up with a cushion. Checks his airway. Bends to take his pulse – quick but strong. When he looks up to the boy’s face again, Boba’s eyelashes are fluttering. The boy blinks up at Plo, then furrows his brow.

Ah. Boba’s never seen him without the filter mask before. It’s a timely reminder, as Plo’s lungs are starting to burn from the strain of holding his breath this long. He lifts a finger in a “wait” gesture, and goes to grab his mask, sealing his room behind him to repressurise. He’ll worry about his goggles later; in the dark of their nighttime quarters, he doesn’t need them. Instead, he races back to Boba, kneeling by his side.

“Can you hear me?” Plo asks. When Boba nods slowly, Plo lets out a breath. “Good. Take a deep breath for me? Very good, and now let it out, like this...” He talks Boba through a few breaths, in, out, until Plo is satisfied that Boba’s breathing sounds normal again. “Any pain?”

Boba shakes his head, tears starting in his eyes.

“That’s good. Can you sit up? Dizzy, sick to your stomach, anything like that?”

“I was going to kill you,” Boba whispers.

Plo sits back slightly, so that he can better look Boba in the eye. It’s strange, seeing Boba without the normal filter over his vision, lit only by the faint glow of the Galactic City at night; the brown and gold threads in Boba’s eyes are more vivid like this.

Softly, Plo says, “I don’t think you were.”

“I was.” Boba’s voice is barely there. “I took the knife, I thought – I thought I could just hold my breath...”

“You could have. It’s only a few steps from the door to my bedside; while I doubt you could have stabbed me without waking me up, it would have been a simple matter to hold your breath that long. But something stopped you, didn’t it? Until you ran out of air. What was it?”

Boba’s lower lip starts to tremble. “I – I couldn’t, I...” His gaze drops from Plo’s, staring instead at his hands. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Boba...”

“No, you don’t understand!” Boba is suddenly yelling, the tears falling freely without regard. “I didn’t want to hurt you – I haven’t wanted to, not for a long time – and when I saw Windu this afternoon, I didn’t want to hurt him, either! I should have wanted to _rip his heart out_! That’s the one thing I’ve been able to count on since my – since my dad – but when I reached for it, it was just… gone. If I don’t even _want_ revenge anymore, what kind of Mandalorian am I? What kind of _son_ am I?”

Plo looks Boba in the eye, and notes distantly the feeling of his own heart breaking, as if he’s observing it from far away.

He wants, more than anything, to wrap his arms around Boba as if that could shelter the boy from the recriminations inside his own head, and tell him over and over that he’s good. Instead, Plo rests one hand on the arm of the sofa – not touching Boba, just anchoring them both – and chooses his words carefully.

“May I tell you something?” He waits for Boba’s nod before continuing. “I never met your father. But he trained most of the _vode,_ and even those too young to have known him are still shaped by his teachings, passed down through their brothers. He was the one who taught them how to be Mandalorian. And I know this: the _vode_ are so, so proud of you, Boba. That tells me all I need to know. You do your father’s legacy justice, every day. And he would be proud of you. _Is_ proud of you, I believe.” Plo weighs all the words he was taught about the living Force and the cosmic Force, the ways in which the consciousness of those who have gone before remains connected to those who stay behind, and discards them all. Instead, he reaches for a Mandalorian phrase, as he gently brushes a lock of hair away from Boba’s eyes. “ _T_ _aab'echaaj'la_.” _Marching far away._

_Not dead,_ the full saying goes, _only marching far away._

There’s a moment, a moment where the two of them are just looking at each other, everything stripped away – Plo’s eyes bare without the goggles, Boba’s so terribly young in their grief – and then Boba lets out a low, gut-wrenching moan and flings himself into Plo’s arms. Plo catches him, cradles him. He can feel hot tears slithering down his neck. Boba’s grip is borderline painful.

“I know, Bob’ika,” Plo murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

***

Plo startles awake some time later. He managed to drift off in one of the armchairs; on the sofa beside him, Boba is curled up, fast asleep.

Plo’s chrono is sitting on his bedside table, he realises with some chagrin. Along with his goggles, for that matter. Never mind. He feels as though he’s been out for a few hours, so it must be close to dawn –

In fact, the sun is nearly up: a fact that is immediately brought home for Plo as soon as he turns towards his bedroom, and a ray of sunlight breaking gently over the horizon stabs him directly in the eye.

Plo gasps, and shuts his eyes, spinning away from the window. As soon as his eyes are closed, the searing pain dulls to a constant low throb, so hopefully he’s managed to get away with it. He can hear Boba stirring – no doubt wakened by the gasp – as Plo keeps one arm up to shield his vision, and reaches out with the other hand to feel his way along the back of the sofa, intending to navigate towards his room.

The sounds of stirring seem more… purposeful, now. He can hear footsteps, and the beep of a keypad; and then Boba taking in a huge breath –

Plo starts to say, “Boba, _don’t_ go in –” but before he can even finish the sentiment, the footsteps are bounding back, and his hand is being taken, something pressed into his palm. He recognises the familiar shape of his goggles.

“ _Di’kut,_ ” Boba says quietly.

Plo huffs a short laugh. “Thank you.”

With his goggles back on and the spots in front of his vision clearing, he can make out Boba’s form as the boy crosses the room and pulls himself up into his window seat. Boba moves as if to draw the curtain around himself, but then glances at Plo, and leaves it open.

It’s not quite an invitation, but it is an opening. And after a moment, Plo takes the boy up on it, going to stand beside him as they both watch the sun come up in silence.

The Jedi Temple somehow, in the heart of the Galactic City, still manages to stand apart from it: solitary and contained, and magnificent. Against the sharp, neon edges of the city, its petal-like curves harken back to an older world. And sometimes, to be this high up inside its towers feels like going back in time – especially at this specific moment, when the last of the nightdwellers are slowly trickling away from the walkways and streets, the normal day crowds aren’t yet awake, and the dawn is painting the mostly-empty city in stark, bare shades of white and gold. The world feels like a blank canvass that hasn’t known the touch of ink yet; like it could be anything at all.

When the sun is well up and the first morning transports have started buzzing past, breaking the spell, Plo touches Boba’s arm. “Breakfast?”

Boba nods, and doesn’t pull away from the touch; if anything, it seems like he leans just the slightest bit closer. Plo pats his shoulder and smiles, and purposely doesn’t react when Boba follows him like a shadow to the kitchen. Instead, he simply asks the boy to cut up some fruit while Plo cooks, as if they do this every morning.

As they set the food down on the table, and Boba grabs a chair and tucks into a bowl of grains with his usual ferocity, Plo regrets not having the time to keep the boy company. The briefing for the 104th’s new mission begins shortly. After the night he’s had, Plo really needs to get some food into himself, or at least some caf, if he’s going to survive without having to enlist Wolffe to prod him awake every few minutes. He assembles a plate and starts towards his bedroom… but then pauses. Looks at the plate. Looks at Boba.

And asks casually, “Would you mind if I…?” as he points at his mask.

Boba looks up, a brief flash of surprise passing over his features before he shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me.” True to his word, he barely reacts, beyond a brief, curious glance, as Plo eases the mask off to take a bite of fruit.

They’re most of the way through the meal – Plo alternating bites and breaths, Boba eating a little more slowly than usual, though he still manages to devour fruit and porridge and an apartment-building-sized stack of toast – when Boba abruptly sets his tea down. A smile, thin and sharp as a stiletto, flits across his face.

“ _Sha’kajir,”_ he says in Mando’a.

It’s an old word, one it takes Plo a moment to decipher. _Sha’kajir_ refers literally to sitting down with someone across a dining table, sharing a meal – something, he realises, he and Boba haven’t really done before now. Plo has always waited to eat in private afterwards. But over the centuries, the word has acquired another meaning: one rooted in breaking bread together, but rather more important.

It means _truce._

“ _Sha’kajir,_ ” Plo says in return.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo and the Wolfpack head off to the front lines, and to a dangerous undercover mission in disputed space - leaving Boba behind. Or, a chapter of goodbyes (and one goodbye that couldn't stand to be said).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Slight suggestiveness – basically, Rex starts making a dirty joke but doesn’t quite make it to the punchline. :)

Plo brings Wolffe a cup of caf before the briefing, and Wolffe falls on it with a noise that’s practically obscene.

“Bad night?” Plo asks softly, as the other Council members start to drift in.

Wolffe pounds the rest of the caf and wipes his mouth before answering. “Remember how Sunny was always fond of that brother from the 327th? The 327th got back last night, and...”

“Oh, no.”

“It could be worse – the lad’s alive, but he got hurt bad and the docs say it’s touch and go. We were up with Sunny most of the night.” Wolffe eyes Plo. “What about you? You look like death, sir, no offense.”

“Sweet talker.” Plo smiles wryly. “Also up most of the night, though for less dire reasons.”

“Those reasons wouldn’t be about four feet tall and look a lot like me when I was younger?”

“Mmm. We had...” Plo pinches the skin between his eyes. “We had a good talk. In the end.”

If Wolffe has any doubts about this version of events, he doesn’t get a chance to voice them, as Yoda clicks on the holographic map and the briefing begins.

That their departure is imminent is not unexpected; what comes as something more of a surprise is their destination – or rather _destinations,_ plural. The _Courageous_ and most of the battalion will proceed in convoy with General Skywalker’s 501st on the _Resolute_ to reinforce General Gallia for the final push; meanwhile, Plo and a small contingent of his men will travel on General Kenobi’s _Negotiator,_ hitching a ride to the Outer Rim. Before heading onwards to engage the Separatist army, Kenobi will pass close enough to the disputed Rim world of Norralus for Plo and his troops to take a shuttle to the surface undetected.

To undertake any sort of mission to Norralus is delicate work, Plo understands. The Senate hasn’t officially thrown its support behind the popular uprising there that’s attempting to overthrow the planet’s Separatist-aligned junta, so openly sending in a GAR detachment is out of the question; any support the Jedi provide will need to be both limited in scope and thoroughly discreet.

However, the interrogation of Separatist agents captured last week – half a galaxy away – has yielded an unexpected lucky break for the rebels on Norralus, as it turns out one of the Separatists was trying to smuggle a particular artefact from the planet to Dooku.

Yoda passes Plo a rectangle of crystal, almost as thinly-cut as flimsi – a bit ungainly in Yoda’s hands, but able to fit in Plo’s palm.

“A royal emblem, it is,” Yoda explains, “and supreme power on Norralus, it signifies. Stolen by the Separatists, it was, from their own allies, who stole it from the queen they deposed. But a practical purpose, too, it serves.” He turns the crystal over in Plo’s hand, revealing a few lines of spidery, miniscule gold script. “An ancient royal archive, this unlocks, and an armoury, said to have been the envy of the galaxy.”

“But that was long ago,” Mace breaks in. “Our contacts among the rebels say they’ve found the armoury, which is more than the junta ever managed. Still, they may find this of more use as a symbol than as a key. They would be very lucky indeed to find those weapons and those volumes still useful in the modern age.”

“The mere fact that Dooku tried to have this smuggled offworld to him would seem to suggest the rebels _are_ that lucky,” Plo says. “Or will be, if we can get this to them. At the very least, the Separatists must think there’s reason to try and secure the armoury for themselves.”

Yoda nods, with a slight smile. “The heir to the throne, the leader of the rebellion is,” he says. A hologram of a young woman in an elaborate headdress takes the place of the map. It seems to be an official government image; the caption confirms that it dates from four years ago, before the junta came to power. “Into her hands, put this, and know how to use it, she will.”

“How will we find her?”

Mace leans in to change the hologram again, zooming from the original space chart to a closeup of the planet. A location near the equator is blinking. “Our information says that she and her top lieutenants have retreated to the ancient capital of Beven, here. The city is apparently largely sympathetic to the rebels, so Separatist control is looser there; but looser doesn’t meant there won’t be Separatist spies present, even if there aren’t droids patrolling the streets. _Be careful._ ”

Plo holds the crystal up to the light. The blue of the map refracts through it, throwing out tiny rainbows and turning the filigree writing to fire. “And once we reach the city?”

“I’m afraid it will be up to you to find a way to establish contact. We lost touch with the rebellion following their last major defeat; they don’t know you’re coming.”

Wolffe mutters, “Great,” pitched so only Plo can hear, and then raises his voice to add, “Begging your pardon, Generals, but if there are Seppie spies everywhere, how can we be sure we’ve even found the real rebels?”

“Ah. There, I think we can help you, Commander.” Mace keys something into his wristband, and both Plo’s and Wolffe’s comms beep. “A standard code phrase we were using to authenticate communications with the rebels, before we lost contact. It may help. For safety, though, unless you have no other option, make sure you give the crystal directly to the rebel leader, and no one else.”

“Two or three men, take with you,” Yoda tells Plo. “No more. Transport you there, General Kenobi can, and pick you up on his return; but if in trouble you are, a rescue you cannot expect. If caught, you are, deny all knowledge, the Republic must.”

***

“Sinker and Boost,” Wolffe says immediately as they leave the Council chamber.

Plo nods. That was his conclusion, too. “And yourself. I need the very best of my men with me for this.”

Wolffe simply nods, looking solemn. “Captain Jai’galaar can assume command in my absence. Under General Skywalker, of course.”

“Excellent.” Plo catches Wolffe’s gaze darting away. “I don’t like dividing the Pack, either, my Wolffe.”

“I know, General. And they’ll be in good hands with Jag. Just – feels like shitty timing, is all.”

He looks so _tired,_ it makes Plo’s chest ache. He resolves to make sure Wolffe gets at least a nap in on the journey. For now, he just nods, and puts a hand on Wolffe’s shoulder, until they reach Plo’s quarters and have to part ways.

“You’ll all need civilian clothes,” Plo points out. “Infiltration would be a bit difficult in full armour.”

“Not a problem. If the boys don’t have their own, the quartermaster’ll have something lying around we can use.” A brief, wicked smile flashes across Wolffe’s face. “What about you, sir? Don’t tell me you actually own clothes that aren’t robe-shaped.”

“Oh, I have a few old things I could dust off, I imagine. Some day, when this is all over, remind me to tell you about the time the late Master Giiett and I had to dress as gangsters to get into a casino in Canto Bight –” Plo cuts himself off with a wave of his hand. “Later.We depart in two hours; I’ll leave it to you to get the men together.”

“Yessir. Could you –” Wolffe coughs, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Could you tell the kid so long for me?”

Plo gently takes Wolffe’s arm. “Come in, and tell him yourself.”

“I’d rather not, General. I’ve never been good with goodbyes.” One corner of Wolffe’s mouth turns up, tenuously.

“Then… as you wish, my Wolffe.”

***

Boba is watching him silently.

Plo scrolls through the list on the computer console once more, double-checking the permissions he’s granted the boy in his absence. It’s past time that he stopped stalling, he knows.

Taking a deep breath, he turns around to face Boba, who’s abruptly staring at his feet. Boba mumbles, “How long you gonna be gone?”

“Two weeks, perhaps three.” Plo crouches down to Boba’s eye level. “You’ll have full use of the Archives, and the training room. I lined up some lessons with Master Billaba – you’ll like her. And in an emergency –”

“Yeah, I know.” Boba kicks his heels against the sofa, still not looking at Plo. “I’ll be fine.”

The slightest of stresses on the word _I’ll._

Plo reaches out and takes the boy’s shoulders. “Whatever might happen to me, you will always have a home here. No one will take that from you.”

Boba just looks at him, those golden-brown eyes fathoms deep, and nods. They both know how little a promise to return safe would be worth.

“Wolffe...” Plo pauses, finding the words. “Wolffe wanted me to tell you goodbye. For now. I know he and the rest of the Pack are going to miss you while we’re away.”

At that, Boba drops his gaze, pressing his lips together and looking everywhere but at Plo, as the boy’s breath turns ragged and he seems to be fighting back tears. But when Plo opens his arms in invitation, Boba responds without hesitating, hugging him hard.

If a tiny, high sob escapes the child, muffled against Plo’s chest, no one else has to know.

“Be well, Boba,” Plo says, releasing him and brushing a knuckle lightly over Boba’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

“ _K_ _’oyacyi,_ ” Boba calls after him.

***

The hangar is abuzz with activity, as three full battalions prepare to ship out, and the air is filled with orders, greetings, and goodbyes.

“Now, don’t let this one push you around, kid,” Wolffe is saying to Ahsoka, as he wraps a hand affectionately around the back of Captain Jai’galaar’s neck. “And _you,_ ” he adds to Jag, “make sure you keep the commander here out of trouble.”

“I think I can keep _myself_ out of trouble,” Ahsoka shoots back, but her eyes are sparkling.

“Yeah, staying away from trouble is _exactly_ what I associate with you, _ad’ika_ ,” Wolffe returns. “You and General Plo are as bad as each other. Y’know, when you walked in here I didn’t recognise you for a second, because _nothing was blowing up behind you._ ”

It’s clear that Ahsoka is trying to look offended when she’s actually preening inside at that image. Plo hides a smile as he turns to direct a couple of clone troopers carrying a crate of grenades between them.

“No offense to Captain Jag, but keeping the commander out of trouble is my job,” a new voice announces from across the tarmac.

Wolffe grins toothily. “Rex’ika!” He and Captain Rex stride towards each other, and as they meet, Wolffe wraps one arm around his younger brother, pressing their foreheads together in the affectionate version of a Keldabe kiss. When they break apart, Wolffe teases, “Still letting your Jedi toss you off of buildings?”  
  


Rex leans close, leering playfully. “And you, _ori’vod_? Still _wishing_ your Jedi would toss you –”

Wolffe snaps his teeth together an inch from Rex’s neck, and Rex jumps back, laughing. It’s at that moment that they both spot Plo, and the captain seems to choke on his laugher; he sputters, and Wolffe’s cheeks flush bright red.

Plo decides to have mercy on the poor men, and turns away, pretending he didn’t hear – much as he’d love to let his gaze linger on the sight of a blushing Wolffe. Now _that_ conversation is definitely something he’s going to need to put out of his mind if he’s going to be able to concentrate on the mission.

Something to consider afterwards, though. Provided Plo makes it back alive.

Almost too soon, the troops have squared everything seamlessly away and made ready to embark. Plo says a few words of encouragement and gratitude to the rest of the 104th, bids farewell to Ahsoka (“We’ll take good care of the Wolfpack, Master Plo – I promise!”) and Skywalker, and is warmly welcomed aboard General Kenobi’s shuttle to join the _Negotiator._

“Something troubles you, Master Plo?” Obi-Wan asks, once they’re en route.

Plo shakes himself. “Merely considering the variables involved. This is hotly disputed space; the odds that we’ll need to fight our way through Separatist forces before you can even land us is high. And the territory around Norralus is dangerous for other reasons.”

“You’re thinking of pirates.” Obi-Wan sighs. “It’s true, our route does clip rather too close to Florrum for my liking.”

“At least you have a somewhat cordial relationship with the inhabitants of that world. I doubt they remember me as fondly.”

Obi-Wan grimaces, and murmurs something that sounds like, “Trade you,” before rubbing his face, as if to bring himself back to the moment. “But is that all? Just the mission?”

Plo hesitates, debating how much to say. “For a moment, back in the hangar, I thought I sensed…” It was only the most fleeting, flickering sensation; a presence in the Force that tasted familiar, but out of place. In amid all those hundreds of people with their fears and eagernesses and adrenaline screaming loud, though, it’s impossible to be sure – and very easy to imagine things. He offers Obi-Wan a smile. “It must have been my mind drifting to the… responsibilities I leave behind.”

Obi-Wan’s return smile is a bit weathered at the edges. “It’s never easy, is it? There’s a small part of me that still wants to follow Anakin around on every mission, and he’s a grown man and a general in his own right. But Boba will be fine.”

“You’re right, of course.” Plo stands as they dock, and joins Wolffe, Sinker, and Boost in gathering their gear. “Permission to come aboard, General?”

“Granted!” For just a moment, Obi-Wan’s smile brightens into genuine pleasure, as he waves an arm. “Welcome to the _Negotiator,_ gentlemen!”

***

Later, however, that same tensely coiled, naggingly _familiar_ sensation in the Force has Plo restlessly prowling the cargo bay as the 212th finish unloading their latest intake of supplies, alongside the few boxes of rations, weapons and equipment meant for Plo’s infiltration team. And it’s from the cargo bay that he comms Wolffe.

“Commander, did you happen to double-check our own supply crates before they were brought onboard?”

“ _Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”_

“Oh, no reason,” Plo replies, watching as the lid of one of the crates creaks open from the inside, and out climbs Boba Fett.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Keldabe kiss’ is a Mandalorian term that refers to two rather different things: An aggressive headbutt (sometimes called a ‘Glasgow kiss’ in the real world; we can only surmise that the Mandalorian city of Keldabe has a reputation a bit like Glasgow’s!), or a gentle touching of foreheads together, similar to – and most likely inspired by – the real-world hongi, a greeting from Maori culture. I just want to confirm that the greeting Wolffe gives Rex in this chapter is the second variety. :) (I would ASSUME it goes without saying, but this is Wolffe we're talking about.)
> 
> Captain Jai'galaar, or Captain Jag, is the clone pilot who canonically shoots Plo down during Order 66. So. You're welcome for that tidbit!
> 
> Sunny is a clone OC, although the name was inspired by a Tumblr post suggesting that "Sunshine" is a popular clone name; I found that idea quite charming.
> 
> The Force bless Mace: he provides a refreshing change in exposition scenes, because I seriously don't know if I could have written an entire briefing in Yoda's grammatical structure.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp, the young child has stowed away on the battleship heading on a dangerous mission into enemy territory. This is fine. It's fine. This is fine. Everything is going to be fine. It's fine.
> 
> In which Boba has a point, Obi-Wan has a surprise revelation, and two clone commanders are in desperate need of a proper nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for canon-typical violence to droids, and discussions of death and of threats to children.

“Turn the ship around!”

“We can’t _turn the ship around,_ Wolffe,” replies Commander Cody, who seems to have reluctantly risen to the position of sole voice of reason, given that no one else wanted it. “We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace soon, and from there we’ve got to do everything to keep our heads down if we’re to have any chance of landing you and your men without drawing the Seppies’ attention. We’re hardly going to –”

“I know, I know.” Wolffe tilts his head back, and lets out a noise that’s half growl and half muffled primal scream. “Aaaarrrrrggllllllaaaaaah.”

“We’ll just have to keep the kid with us on the _Negotiator_ ,” Cody says sensibly.

“You can’t take him into battle!”

“ _You_ can’t take him on an infiltration mission!”

“I’m right here, you know,” Boba chips in. He’s sitting cross-legged on top of the desk in Obi-Wan’s ready room, with absolutely no regard for paperwork.

Wolffe rounds on him. “I am _painfully_ aware that you’re right here, kid. I don’t know if you missed it somehow, but you being here is the _entire problem_!”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Boba draws himself up as tall as he can while sitting. “It’s not like I just stowed away without telling anyone! I was responsible. I _left_ a _note_.”

The silence that ensues is punctuated only by a soft sound that could almost – if such a thing were not impossible for such an impeccably correct soldier – be taken for Commander Cody stifling a laugh.

Obi-Wan, who up until now has been sitting quietly, watching Boba’s expression, says, “Commander Wolffe has a point. I’m afraid that you _have_ managed to make rather a wreck of our plans, Boba.”

Boba, who has been looking increasingly stung at their reactions, rounds on him. “I could still decide to make a wreck of your _face_ , _jetii –_ ”

“ _Udesii,_ ” Plo murmurs, and to his surprise, Boba immediately subsides.

Obi-Wan smiles wearily. “No, it’s quite all right, Master Plo. I feel I deserved that.” He returns his attention to the boy. “Boba has every reason to be less than fond of me. Because the day we met was the beginning of your life being turned inside out, was it not? I am truly sorry for that, Boba. And I am truly sorry about your father.”

Boba’s eyes widen, and he looks downright poleaxed by the apology. After a long moment, he glances down at his hands. “Yeah. Well. Thanks.” The next words come out in a mumbled rush. “Sorry I shot at you.”

“That was _you_?” Obi-Wan gapes.

“Uh, yeah – Dad was busy piloting, asked me to man the guns.”

Obi-Wan sits back. “Well. I must say, you’re very impressive.”

“Wait, when did you _shoot_ him?” Cody demands, with the overall air of a man in a constant struggle to keep on top of the myriad people who seem to want to kill his Jedi.

“While I was tailing Jango’s ship to Geonosis. Boba very nearly did for me, besides making me lose them for a time.”

“See?” Boba turns to Plo. “Even he admits I’m good. You _know_ I am. I’m not some shiny. I’ve been in battle before, and I can _help._ ”

“No,” Wolffe says, a little dangerously, “you’re _not_ some shiny. You know how I know? Because shinies are still grown men who’ve trained for their entire lives. You’re eleven!”

“ _You’re_ eleven,” Boba says, reasonably enough.

“I’m twenty-two, kid,” Wolffe growls. “Or at least, I was before I met you, and started ageing like spoiled rations. Right now, near as I can tell, I’m around seven hundred and fifty –”

“Enough.” Plo pushes himself up from where he’s been leaning against the wall. “There’s little point focusing on whether or not Boba _should_ have stowed away. The question is, now that you’re here, Boba, what are we going to do about it?”

There’s a silence, and then Boba asks in a small voice, “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” Plo crosses the room, and perches on the edge of the desk Boba is sitting on. He drops a hand onto the boy’s shoulder. “A little annoyed at myself for not seeing this coming. But _you,_ Boba – what you’ve done took great daring, and all because you wanted to help.” Plo waits to make sure Boba is looking at him. “You make me proud.”

Boba ducks his head, trying without much success to hide a smile.

“ _I’m_ still pissed at you, you little _mir’sheb_ ,” Wolffe points out.

“Wolffe is worried for you,” Plo translates. “As am I. The one thing I didn’t want was for you to be in danger.”

“I can handle it.”

“Boba, that may not be true. Our mission is particularly dangerous; that’s why I could only take a few of my most elite troops with me...” Plo trails off. “Speaking of which, how did you figure out I’d be on Master Kenobi’s ship, and not with the rest of the 104th on the _Courageous_?”

Boba gives him the look that says Plo is being dumb. “Didn’t even know your ship was called the _Courageous._ I saw a trooper loading up a bunch of ration packs with: _Danger! Not suitable for humans! Highly explosive in oxygen atmosphere!_ ” Boba intones the words dramatically, sketching the size of the script with his hands. “And a little picture of a guy in a mask on them. So I figured they were for you, and I followed where they went. Can your food really blow up?”

“In the correct set of circumstances, virtually any food can blow up,” Plo says with the certainty of a misspent youth. “My point is, while your being here is far from ideal, my first priority is still to keep you safe, as best I can. And that may mean remaining here with Master Kenobi and Marshall Commander Cody while the Pack and I complete our mission, and then returning for us.”

“We will do everything we can to make sure no harm comes to you,” Obi-Wan promises. He catches Plo’s eye, and Plo can see it stamped plainly in the younger man’s gaze, just as he can feel it radiating through the Force – that lingering sense of guilt, the eagerness for this belated atonement. It was not Obi-Wan’s fault that Jango Fett died – but it wouldn’t have happened without his presence, and seeing Boba seems to have thrown that into sharp relief. Then Obi-Wan adds in a brighter tone, as if to lighten the mood, “Any experience being on a star destroyer, Boba?”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the five of them.

“Apart from blowing one up, you mean?” Cody asks, one eyebrow lifting. Obi-Wan shoots him a look.

“Kriff _that_!” Boba smacks his fist down on the desk. “I didn’t come along so that I could stay _safe_!”

“It is what your father would have wanted.”

Obi-Wan’s words, spoken so mildly, nevertheless have an immediate effect on Boba, whose head snaps around to stare at him. Obi-Wan meets that stare, his own gaze full of sympathy even as he twists the knife.

“I remember, on Geonosis, just as the battle began. I happened to glance towards Dooku’s box, and I saw him arguing with Jango. It seemed that Jango was reluctant to fight, until Dooku said something to him that made him put his helmet on and join the fray. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I believe I do now. Dooku used your presence there against your father, didn’t he?”

“He said my dad had to go fight the Jedi,” Boba whispers, his face pale. “Dad wanted to leave, he said he’d completed his contract. That guy – was _that_ Dooku? The Separatist boss? I didn’t… that wasn’t the name he gave us. He said he still needed Dad and he was changing the terms of the contract, and then he said...” Boba’s voice takes on Dooku’s usual icy drawl with an uncanny accuracy. “ _‘How old is young Boba now? Such a fine boy… such a pity if anything happened to him.’”_

Plo’s hand tightens on Boba’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are grave, but gentle. “A very great sacrifice. For a very great purpose. You may not care about your own life, Boba, but your father would, and did. He wanted to keep you safe, whatever the cost.”

“You know what I remember, _jetii_?” Boba snarls, leaping up off the desk. “I remember that my dad went in that arena because of me. I remember that he went _without me_ , ’cause he wouldn’t let me back him up, and he died. And maybe I couldn’t have helped him, but _what if I could_? And now I _can_ help and I’m not gonna let the same thing happen to my...” He waves his hand at Plo and Wolffe, and hesitates, before finishing, “… to _them_.”

Across the room, Plo meets Wolffe’s eyes. Much as the commander is trying to hide it, he looks exactly as Plo feels: like his heart is threatening to burst out of his chest.

_And even if you could guarantee he’d be safe here, do you really think he’ll stay where he’s put?_ a voice tugs at the back of Plo’s mind. It sounds strangely like Kit. _We cannot always stand between the pain and the child._

“Then it’s settled,” Plo says, standing. He crosses to Boba, who looks up with a mulish set to his jaw that doesn’t quite hide the hint of something fragile in his eyes. Plo clasps Boba’s shoulders. “You’re with us.”

Boba nods, then lets out a long, relieved breath.

“Master Plo,” Obi-Wan begins, a note of gentle reproof in his voice. “I realise there are no good options here, but do you not think –”

At that moment, the deck rocks beneath them as something slams into the ship.

***

The five of them reach the command deck at a run.

They aren’t alone; all around them, clone troopers and nat-born officers alike are dashing past, shouting orders and fragments of reports. The gist of those reports, however, is what Plo and the others can see for themselves through the viewscreens.

Three massive Separatist cruisers are arrayed in orbit around Norralus. Fighters swarm around them in formation. A few are beginning to break off and head towards the _Negotiator_ , like curious insects swooping in to investigate a carcass. Plo has the feeling the ship is about to feel their sting.

Cody grabs one of the officers and exchanges a few urgent words, then turns back to Obi-Wan. “We came out of hyperspace practically on top of them, sir. The lead ship took a pot shot at us – that was the impact we felt. Since then, though, they’ve hung back. They’ll be sending the fighters to try and loosen us up, I wager.”

“A strangely cautious kind of ambush,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “They have us three to one, why not strike before we can get away?” Louder, he tells Cody, “Scramble our own fighters. See if they can’t get us some breathing room to manouevre.”

“And for that matter, how did they know we’d be here?” Plo asks in return.

“It’s not an ambush, Generals,” Wolffe says suddenly from behind them. “I don’t think they’re here for us.”

Staring at the ships, Obi-Wan breathes, “By the Force. I do believe you’re right, Commander.” He strides up the deck towards the viewscreens, the others close behind him. Plo can see it now – while some of the Separatist fighters are coming their way, a greater number of fighters and drop ships are apparently headed for the planet. “This isn’t an ambush – it’s a planetary invasion. That’s why they’re so slow off the mark. We’ve caught them as off guard as they’ve caught us.”

Plo starts, “But if their allies already hold Norralus, then what are they –” He breaks off, tilting his head. “The artefact.”

“Artefact?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Our mission. We’re carrying a Norralan artefact taken off a Separatist spy, who was trying to smuggle it off-planet to Dooku. It seems that when his spy never arrived, the Count got tired of waiting. Perhaps he believes he was double-crossed by his Norralusi friends.”

Wolffe comes to stand beside him. “Guess that clears up the mystery of whether that thing is really still that valuable.”

“Plo, we need to land you _now._ ” Obi-Wan’s eyes are deadly serious. “Afterwards, we can make a run for it, and hope they’re too invested in their quarry to give chase.”

Another blast makes the deck tremble under their feet, and Plo runs a couple of quick, silent calculations. He nods. “Agreed. And I would prepare for company in the meantime. If I’m right, that blast was cover fire for their fighters – they must be almost on top of us.”

“General!” Cody’s got his helmet back on, but everything in his posture speaks of concern. “With the Seppies’ attention on the planet, there’s no way General Plo can make it to the surface.”

“Leave that to me, Commander,” Plo says. He glances at Boba – who’s been quiet throughout, watching the ships around them with a weather eye – and then exchanges looks with Obi-Wan.

The younger Jedi grimaces. “This rather changes the calculus, doesn’t it? He won’t be safe here – you’ll _have_ to take him with you.”

Plo drops to one knee beside Boba, turning the child to face him. “Boba, listen to me. I need you to _promise_ that you’ll follow my orders. Mine, and the Wolfpack’s. If any one of us tells you to do something, you must, without hesitation.” Plo pins Boba with his gaze. “Even if what we tell you to do is run, and not wait for us. Are we agreed?”

He half-expects Boba to bridle at that, but the boy nods, and says with real seriousness, “ _Haat, ijaa, haa’it._ ” Plo can feel Obi-Wan shift beside him, and knows that the other Jedi also recognises the Mandalorian phrase used to seal a pact.

“ _Haat, ijaa, haa’it,_ ” Plo replies. Straightening, he sees that Sinker and Boost have already arrived. “Wolfpack, on me. We’re heading to the shuttle now.”

Another blast almost knocks them off their feet. At almost the same moment, one of the pilot’s voices breaks through over the comm -

“ _skkkkrrkk –_ or five – broke through on the – _sskkk –_ and headed – landing bay –”

Obi-Wan turns, his face grim. “Cody, ready the men to repel boarders. Master Plo –”

“Right away. The Force be with you, Obi-Wan.”

“And you. We’ll buy you what time we can. Go!”

***

The five of them – Plo, his Wolfpack, and their stowaway – make their way as quickly as they can, while still pausing to peer cautiously around every turn, and listen at every corner. The occasional deep rumble of the cruisers’ fire shakes the corridors around them, but the blasts are growing fewer and further apart.

“They’ve stopped,” Boba whispers, after a particularly long pause. “Did we win?”

Plo shakes his head. “If they’ve stopped for now, it means their boarding parties have gotten past our defences. No point in firing on their own troops.”

And indeed, as the sounds of ship-to-ship fire die away, other noises begin to filter through – close-quarters blaster fire, grunts of pain. Somewhere, distantly, a strangled scream.

Plo squeezes Boba’s shoulder, as Boost rounds the corner behind them, guarding the rear. “Not much further,” Plo murmurs. “We take a left at the next -”

He cuts himself off, and sinks into a crouch, holding up a fist. The three troopers halt behind him. Even Boba goes still, flattening himself against the wall as the others do.

Plo suddenly stands and whirls around the next corner, igniting his saber in the same motion. The battle droid unit stalking along the main corridor certainly weren’t expecting to see him. Their surprise is brief.

Flicking his saber off, Plo surveys the smoking heaps of metal before turning to meet Wolffe. His commander merely gestures with his blaster at the corpse of the yellow-helmed officer droid. “He get a chance to call in our position?”

“He did not,” Plo says, and Wolffe nods firmly.

“ _Whoa._ ”

They both look up. Boba is standing at the junction, his eyes huge as he takes in the bodies of the droids. Then those eyes flicker upwards, and Plo winces, steeling himself to see fear in the boy’s gaze… but he doesn’t. Instead, Boba is studying him with an expression of intense concentration.

“C’mon.” Wolffe jerks his head to the side. “We keep moving. You, too, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter strays a little bit into a complicated headcanon I have about Jango, and how exactly he ended up fighting in the arena on Geonosis. We may return to this in more depth later (or in a separate fic), but the relevant bit here is that I think by the time he wound up on Geonosis, Jango considered himself done with Dooku’s/Tyrannus’s schemes. The Jedi had found the secret clone army, as planned; Jango could hardly go back and continue training them now that the secret was out. The army would be taken up by the Jedi and the Republic, and Jango’s role was over. He had his son with him. He had every intention of getting the hell out of Dodge. Dooku, though, had different ideas (and probably never intended Jango, who knew way too much for Dooku’s tastes, to leave Geonosis alive).
> 
> Whether or not Jango realised that “Lord Tyrannus” was also Count Dooku (I mean, the man is a prominent political leader, I’m sure his image turns up pretty regularly in the news), Boba was never aware of the connection. And according to Clone Wars, the Jedi don’t know at this point that Dooku went by the name Tyrannus (and was therefore involved in the creation of the clone army in the first place).
> 
> “Haat, ijaa, haa’it” literally translates to “truth, honour, vision”, and is a Mando’a phrase traditionally used to seal an agreement. It’s roughly the equivalent of Boba telling Plo, “Yes, I swear.”
> 
> It’s entirely possible that Plo’s comments about food exploding provide us a glimpse of the potential fate of the giant bowl of pudding mentioned in the creche flashback a while ago. :) I leave it to the reader to draw their own conclusions…
> 
> #LetCommanderCodyRest2020


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo and Wolffe reluctantly agree to bring their surprise stowaway on a dangerous undercover mission... that is, if they can get off the _Negotiator_ alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for canon-typical violence and dead bodies. Slight spoilers for the _Star Wars_ comics, specifically _Jedi Council: Acts of War_.

“Sinker! Down!”

“On your left, General!”

“Everyone back! Take cover!”

The worst part is that they’re so _close._

The shuttle bay is practically in shouting distance just ahead… on the other side of one of the ship’s main junctions, where several corridors connect like spokes in a wheel. And it just so happens that at least three of those corridors are packed with droids, all in a position to fire on anyone foolhardy enough to try and cross the centre.

Plo and his Pack retreat, diving for the shelter of the first connecting corridor – Plo pulls Boba around the corner to the right, while Boost, Sinker, and Wolffe take the left. Plo catches Wolffe’s eye, and is met with a quick shake of the helmeted head. With blaster fire from that many directions, the junction’s a killbox. The odds of being able to block that fire long enough to get his men through, and then carve a path down one of the occupied corridors – well, it would be a desperate last resort even if they _didn’t_ have a civilian child with them.

Several of the droids begin their march down the corridor towards the Pack. Boost leans around the corner and snipes one of them; Wolffe drops two more, enough to make the rest pull back just out of range.

“We can try and lure them towards us, a few at a time,” Plo says, hearing the doubt in his own voice.

“Don’t think we can clear enough of them before reinforcements get here,” Wolffe murmurs back, as Sinker swaps places with Boost and just manages to wing one of the droids that drifts too close.

“Agreed. But if I take point as far as –” Plo, incongruously, feels a tug on his sleeve, as if he’s teaching in the creche instead of in the middle of a firefight. “Yes, Boba?”

The boy is pointing directly overhead. Plo follows his gaze, and then clicks his claws to get Wolffe’s attention and points, too.

Above them is a vent in the ceiling. If the panel were to be removed, it would be just about the right size to admit a human in armour.

“Think you can get it open?” Plo murmurs to Boba.

“If I could get up there, sure.”

“I’ve got an idea for that.” Plo spares a glance at the boy. “It involves some Force bullshit, if you’ll allow it.”

Boba looks confused, but shrugs and nods – and then lets out a hastily muffled, “ _Kriff –!_ ” as his feet leave the floor. Plo carefully pilots him towards the ceiling, while keeping the rest of his attention on the droids at the far end of the corridor. Boba flails in midair at first, his breathing quietly panicked; by the time his outstretched fingers touch the ceiling, though, he’s calmed enough to paddle himself along with his hands until he reaches the vent. Then he makes the mistake of looking down, and his eyes go wide. His body jerks as if he’s trying to catch himself from falling.

Plo whispers, “I’ve got you.”

Boba nods shakily, and starts feeling for the latch on the vent.

Glancing across the corridor, Plo holds up three fingers. Wolffe nods sharply. On the count of three, he swings around the corner, laying down cover fire as Sinker somersaults across the corridor, landing in a crouch beside Plo. Plo pats Sinker’s shoulder in confirmation – _got him safe –_ and Wolffe ducks back behind cover just in time to dodge the next round of fire from the droids.

“Boba?” Plo asks in an undertone.

  
“Yeah. Yeah, give me a sec.”

Boost crosses the same way, both men now watching Boba curiously as he bobs gently near the ceiling, as if in zero-G.

There’s a telltale electric whine nearby, and the trundle of metal on the deck. “We’ve got rollies incoming,” Wolffe hisses.

“Boba –”

“Got it!” The vent cover swings open with a clatter that Plo hopes isn’t loud enough to tip off the droids. With a little extra Force boost, Boba scrambles inside.

“Wolffe!” Plo stands and steps into the line of fire, saber whirring, as his commander dives across the corridor behind him. As soon as Boba is safely in the ventilation duct, Plo reaches out with his mind and snags Sinker, who’s a lot more used to the procedure by now than Boba was; he takes being Force-lifted as if it’s no more out of the ordinary than using the elevator. Boost follows eagerly. Even while he’s balancing the lift with deflecting blaster fire, Plo has to smile at the way Boost always jumps up just as Plo lifts him, as if that will make levitating him easier.

Boost has just managed to grab the lip of the opening when two droidekas roll around the corner and unfold, their force fields flaring into place. A second later, they open fire.

Plo all but _throws_ Wolffe towards the ceiling as he spins his saber to block the rollies’ more vicious blasts. Wolffe, the Force bless him, likes being levitated about as much as he likes flying – which is to say, not – and his entire body is rigid as he zooms towards the vent, but he manages not to make a sound, only huffing slightly at the end as he pulls himself up.

Plo ducks out of the droidekas’ line of fire and jumps straight up, landing in a crouch and pulling the vent cover closed behind him.

“D’ya think we –” Boba begins, but Plo hushes him with a gesture, and waves them all forward. They crawl in uneasy silence until Sinker, who’s second in line, taps Boba’s ankle to tell him to turn left. The duct widens into an access channel; one wall is lined with equipment, and through the hatches below them, the group can catch a glimpse of the shuttle bay underneath.

The shuttle bay, which is very definitely in enemy hands.

It’s clear that Obi-Wan’s men put up their initial line of defence here, before the invaders pushed them back further into the ship. Here and there, the bodies of clones are sprawled where they fell. Further into the bay, another group of battle droids is filing off a newly-landed transport, and forming up into squads to go and reinforce the droids already swarming through the _Negotiator._

The one small mercy is that it looks like most of the droids have already deployed throughout the ship _,_ leaving only a skeleton crew monitoring the bay; after all, it’s not as though they’re expecting to be attacked here. And in fact, Plo realises a moment later that it’s not the _only_ mercy.

He taps Wolffe’s shoulder and points to the shuttle that’s been prepped for them. It’s in the corner furthest from the droids and nearest the bay doors, and it’s practically right underneath an access hatch. Wolffe passes the information down the line, and Plo gestures for the others to cluster as close as they can.

“We drop down there,” he whispers. “Keep the shuttle between us and the droids. If we’re lucky, we may even get onboard without being noticed. As soon as we’re on, strap in, ready to launch.”

He’s met by a round of nods. Plo beckons Boba forward. “Follow me; jump and I’ll slow your descent.”

Sliding the hatch open, Plo drops down, landing soundlessly on the deck below. Boba clambers out after him, his feet dangling for an anxious moment before he lets go. Plo reaches out and floats him to the ground, setting him down behind him before turning his attention to whomever is next out of the hatch.

There’s a clatter behind Plo, and a strangled cry that echoes dangerously through the bay.

Plo whirls around. Boba is hastily backing away, the colour drained from his face. His eyes are fixed on the body he must have almost tripped over – the body of a clone with his helmet torn off.

From that face, Jango Fett’s dead eyes stare back at his son.

“What the – Jedi!”

The lead battle droid’s shrill voice rings out. Plo grabs Boba’s arm and dives behind a stack of crates just as the order comes: “Blast ’em!”

“I’m sorry!” Boba pleads, looking shaken, and Plo has no time to reassure him. He can only spare a second to squeeze Boba’s shoulder before drawing his lightsaber and dashing out to cover the Wolfpack as they drop, one by one, from the hatch.

As soon as they’re down safe, Plo ducks back behind the crates, narrowly escaping a blaster bolt that hums past his ear. Wolffe, rifle clutched in his arms, takes up position next to him. The glance they exchange is eloquent, even through helmet and goggles: they’re sprinting distance from the shuttle, now. Nothing else for it.

A new squad of droids bursts through the nearest door, apparently summoned as backup to deal with the Jedi threat. Wolffe spins to take out the first few, staggering their advance. It’s now or never.

“Sinker, Boost, on my mark,” Plo says. “Boost, start up the engines when you get there. We’re right behind you.”

Boba’s voice breaks in: “I can help. Just give me a blaster.”

The last time Plo saw Boba holding a blaster, it was pointed at Plo’s head.

He gives the child a long, assessing look… and then twitches his fingers, sending the rifle from one of the destroyed battle droids winging across the deck towards them. “Cover your brothers. But stay down.”

“Got it.” Boba crouches with his shoulder against the crates, sighting along the gun.

Plo stands and gestures to Sinker and Boost, taking up a stance between them and the advancing ranks of droids. The two troopers make a beeline for the shuttle, their blasters up, picking off droids as they run; they’re practically back to back, with Sinker aiming to the right and Boost to the left and behind them, covering one another’s blind spots. Plo whirls to block as many bolts as he can from even reaching them, as Wolffe and Boba lay down covering fire.

As soon as Boost and Sinker dash aboard, Plo beckons the other two. He and Wolffe keep Boba between them as they move. The boy doesn’t utter a peep of protest, just keeps his head down and snipes the occasional droid from behind his protectors. He drops four battle droids without breaking a sweat… then turns, and points the gun at Plo at point-blank range.

Plo _fe_ _el_ _s_ the movement behind him at the same second that Boba yells, “Duck, _jetii_!” He throws himself to the side, and Boba’s shot goes clean through the head of the droid trying to sneak up on them.

When Plo turns back, Boba’s mouth is twisted wryly up to the side, as if to say, _You didn’t really think I’d shoot you, did you_?

Plo beams.

It’s the work of a moment to get the rest of them on board, Plo half-turning as he goes to deflect the few final, desperate shots that follow them. While the troopers make sure Boba’s strapped in securely, Plo drops into the pilot’s seat. The engine is already humming around them. And within seconds, they’re free, dropping into the chaotic whirlwind of the battle outside.

As he fires off a brief comm to Obi-Wan – _we’re away, go! -_ Plo eases the shuttle up behind a clutch of fighters headed for the planet’s surface, matching their speed and trajectory as they close in on Norralus. Like a razorfish camouflaging itself amid a school of harmless goldies, he thinks – or, rather, like a goldie attempting to hide amid a school of razorfish. Well, it need only be for a few minutes. Then, with any luck, he’ll be able to peel away as they make planetfall, and pilot his own way to the surface undetected.

Behind the shuttle, the _Negotiator_ jumps to hyperspace. Plo’s relief, however, is short lived.

“They’ve clocked us, General,” Wolffe says, eyeing the scanner. “Looks like at least five are coming over to say hello.”

“Get on the guns, Commander. The rest of you, brace yourselves.” Plo rolls the shuttle as the first round of blaster fire strafes across their bow.

Wolffe’s eyes narrow as he tracks the path of the fighters pursuing them, the twists and dips of Plo’s evasive manouevres, and fires; one of the Separatist fighters goes down in flames. A moment later, though, a stray blast cuts across their hull, and the impact jolts the shuttle. Plo catches a glimpse of Boba’s pale face, his teeth clenched against making any noise.

This isn’t going to work. Plo can only dodge for so long, and the more fighters they take out, the more likely it is that one of the cruisers will take an active interest. Besides, it’s no good shaking their pursuers if the fighters can just hang back and track them to the surface. Plo needs a way to stop the Separatists from following them, full stop. That’ll take…

The shuttle rocks again underneath him, and he remembers.

***

_Plo stared at the comm as if that could make the voice coming through it make any more sense. “You want me to_ what _?”_

“ _Let the Yinchorri hit us!” From the passenger compartment in the back, Micah sounded almost manically gleeful. It was a tone Plo knew intimately, given that it had preceded some of the most triumphant – and some of the most terrifying – moments of his life. Another blast rocked their fragile transport. “Yes, like that!”_

“ _I didn’t plan that!” Plo’s talons flew over the controls, frantically trying to correct for how badly they’d started to list._

_He could hear the grin in Micah’s voice. “No need to plan – just let your terrible piloting skills shine!”_

_Plo found himself beginning to smile against his will in response. “It isn’t my piloting skills I’m worried about, it’s your terrible strategy.” He sobered briefly as the sensors picked up four more Yinchorri ships locking on. “If you’re going to do something, Micah, now’s the time. Though I don’t know what that could be.”_

_Micah’s voice dropped conspiratorially, sending a shiver through Plo. “The trick is this...”_

_***_

When the next bolt comes, Plo leans the shuttle into it.

It’s a shallow blast, one that sends only a moderate tremour through them; but a glance backwards shows Plo the shock, and then the speculation, on the Wolfpack’s faces.

He waits until another blast scores the hull, and the rear sensors tell him there’s a nice plume of smoke.

“Wolffe,” Plo says, “launch the escape pod.”

“We’ll never reach the surface –”

“Empty. Launch it empty.”

Wolffe catches his eye, and the barest hint of a smile takes hold as the commander seems to grasp the ruse. He punches in the command to ready the pod, and then hits launch. At exactly the same moment, Plo kills the engine.

The shuttle drifts, a slow, erratic spiral, until it’s caught by the gravity of the planet and begins its wild rush to the surface.

“They’ve stopped firing, sir,” Wolffe confirms.

“Kriffing lot of good that does if we crash!” Boba yells. “We could have used that escape pod right about –”

At exactly that moment, the shuttle’s end-over-end spin aligns its viewport briefly with the sight of about five enemy fighters converging on the escape pod, and blowing it out of the sky.

Boba shuts up abruptly.

“As long as we let ourselves fall without steering, they’ll assume the shuttle is empty and that all of us were on the escape pod,” Plo says. “Now all we need to do is get to the surface in one piece.”

_Well, Micah, let’s you and I see if we can’t pull this off twice._

The shuttle picks up speed as it enters the atmosphere, streaming colours behind it as it plummets towards the planet below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene in the flashback is actually taken from the comic miniseries _Jedi Council: Acts of War_ , although I added some dialogue of my own around the edges. I figure that Plo would definitely reuse a ruse that clever.
> 
> True love is letting your Jedi Force-yeet you through a ventilation duct. That's not a euphemism.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo and the Wolfpack have made their escape, but now - thanks to Plo's ruse - they're plummeting out of control towards the conflict-ridden Outer Rim world of Norralus. Will they survive? And what awaits them if they do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for canon-typical danger.

They fall.

For a single moment, it feels as though they could fall forever, a drop of light infinitely stretched between the planet and the stars.

Then they’re tearing through the atmosphere, the ground rushing up faster than Plo was prepared for – he has a jumbled impression of dark green forest and jagged mountains all around – they have to hold out just a second longer, to make sure they’re close enough to the surface to mask the signature of their engines – he’s yelling to Wolffe, “Wait – _wait_ –” as the shuttle corkscrews madly towards a crash –

Just before they reach the treeline, Plo roars, “ _Now!”_ and throws the switch as Wolffe lunges for the lever on his own panel, wrenching it all the way back.

The engines sputter, flare on just that second too late. The shuttle rips through the treetops. Plo can hear wood splinter and metal tear as he desperately tries to hold the helm steady. Even the thrusters in full reverse can’t slow them enough – they’re still moving too fast, far too fast –

“ _Everyone brace!”_

Plo channels the Force through the palms of his hands, pushing it into the groaning, shrieking metal of the much-abused shuttle as it careens towards the ground. He can feel the Force weaving through the craft’s structure, binding it up like twine, just holding it together, _holding on –_

The shuttle hits the ground with an almighty jolt, bounces once, slams down again, and scrapes a deep furrow in the forest floor until it finally slows, coming to rest against a fallen tree trunk. A creak and a muffled crash from the rear of the shuttle signals something heavy falling off. The craft trembles, then settles at last into the loam.

There’s a long silence. It’s broken when Boba throws his fists in the air and whoops.

Plo laughs, a little shakily. “Thank you, Boba. Is anyone hurt?”

“Nah,” says Boba.

“All good, General,” says Boost.

“Just my pride and remaining faith in the universe, sir,” says Sinker.

“Is there a form we can fill out to request a different, less insane Jedi?” says Wolffe, grinning and not meaning a word of it.

“You’ll be disappointed if you think there _are_ less insane Jedi,” Plo tells him loftily, getting to his feet. He threads his way down the narrow aisle, patting a shoulder here and an arm there to reassure himself as well as his Pack. Reaching the back, he spares the sparking, fizzing control panel one glance before simply kicking open the door to the shuttle. “Gentlemen, welcome to Norralus.”

***

Plo has fought alongside soldiers of many worlds, in many conflicts, but it’s really only since he took command of the Wolfpack that he’s truly come to appreciate military efficiency. The Pack makes short work of parcelling out supplies, checking weapons, and generally getting ready to head out. (Handily, it turns out Boba stashed his own bag in the crate of Plo’s provisions, complete with extra rations, a length of rope Plo has no idea where he found, and a familiar-looking lighter.) Wolffe strolls up as Plo is inspecting the exterior of the shuttle.

“How’s it looking, General?”

“Well,” Plo says, patting the craft’s wing, “the good news is that the engine still functions, and we have enough fuel to power the scanners, comms, and other systems for weeks. So, should things go wrong and we need to retreat here, we can use the shuttle as a defensible base.”

“Let me guess. The bad news is we can’t use the shuttle as a shuttle.”

“Not with that gash in the hull, no.”

Wolffe ducks his head down to take a look, and swears.

“Luckily, if we’re successful, we won’t need to – the _Negotiator_ will pick us up on its return. And it isn’t as though we could fly from place to place on the planet without significantly increasing our risk of detection, in any event.”

“Right. Speaking of, how far did we end up from our planned landing site?”

“Not… far.” Plo’s voice falters as he turns to look fully at Wolffe, and really takes in what the man is wearing for the first time.

Plo has never seen Wolffe in anything that wasn’t a uniform. His armour, of course, so frequently that Plo has almost begun thinking of the wolf’s head design on Wolffe’s helmet as a second face; his dress greys on occasion; his blacks, in the mess hall after shift or on the sparring mat or while he and Plo pore over maps and battle arrays late at night. It isn’t as though Plo hasn’t seen him in various states of _undress_. Life on a star destroyer means close quarters, and the clone battalions aren’t usually hung up on modesty.

But somehow, looking at Wolffe _out of uniform_ feels even more intimate than seeing him out of his clothes.

Wolffe is in a close-fitting jacket of dark blue, trimmed here and there in silver, and black trousers tucked into calf-high boots. The blasters slung low on his hips and the black leather gloves give his lean frame a sleek, dangerous look. He certainly doesn’t resemble a soldier. In fact, if the whole ensemble were just a little more scuffed, he’d fit in perfectly at any dive bar in the undercity of Coruscant and oh, no, Plo did _not_ just entertain thoughts of _scuffing_ his second-in-command.

His mouth is dry. This is neither the time nor the place for such feelings, even if he had any intention of ever acting on them – which he doesn’t, not unless Wolffe makes the first move. He lets the stab of desire pass through him and out into the Force, and deliberately lifts his gaze to Wolffe’s.

Where he finds the same expression that Plo is sure he himself is wearing.

That… doesn’t make sense; after all, it’s not as though Wolffe has never seen _Plo_ in civvies. Technically, _all_ Plo’s clothes are civvies. And in spite of his reminiscences about Canto Bight, Plo’s not exactly dressed for a night on the town. Under his usual cloak – a gift from his sister, who chose the subtle embroidery to evoke their homeworld – he’s opted for a hard-wearing tunic in deep green, with dark leggings and boots. It’s not all that different from his normal attire.

Wolffe is staring, though. Specifically, his gaze has trailed down Plo’s body to his legs and just kind of… snagged there.

Ah. All right, the tunic _is_ rather shorter than his normal attire.

“Not far,” Plo repeats firmly, and Wolffe visibly startles; he quickly schools his expression as he meets Plo’s eyes, but there’s nothing he can do about that faint dusting of red over his cheeks. “A few hours further out than we intended. We’re still just shy of three days’ hike from the city, however.”

“Great. Nothing like the scenic route,” Wolffe says, but his heart isn’t in the grumbling. He sounds a little distracted as he climbs back into the shuttle to stash away his armour, then drops back down beside Plo. “Guess we’d better get going.”

They find the other three by the shuttle’s nose, packing up the last of their equipment, just in time to hear Boba insist loudly, “No way! The _jetii_ said I could use this rifle, I’m _keeping_ it!”

“The hell you are, kid,” Wolffe chimes in. Boba turns and opens his mouth to protest, but Wolffe keeps going: “No one under my command is carrying any second-rate damn Seppie rifle. With they way they treat their droids – like they’re single-use, just throw ’em in the trash and churn out some more – you think they’re gonna give those clankers any kind of decent weapons? No, look in that crate over there. Should be a spare blaster. A proper, Republic-made blaster.”

Boba digs the weapon out and grins; and then his grin fades to uncertainty as he glances over at Plo.

Plo feels a pang as he looks at the child holding a blaster as if he were born to do it. It’s a proud and bitter feeling, all at once. So much for Boba being the one youngling who didn’t have to go to war.

“There’s a holster in there as well,” Plo tells him, and Boba gives him a quick, grateful smile. “And a knife wouldn’t be a bad idea; some of this forest gets quite thick, we’re told.”

“I have a knife.”

“Boba, I’ve already mentioned my reservations about you joining such a dangerous mission. You are not to face those dangers with the _kitchen knife_ you’ve hidden in your _sock._ ”

Boba rolls his eyes, but cheerfully pulls out a hunting knife and sheath from the Pack’s stash. “Better?”

“Much.”

***

Plo makes it early afternoon when they set off, after at least a halfway decent attempt to hide the shuttle with tree branches. The camouflage job is pretty laughable close up, but should be enough to fool anyone flying overhead.

The forest that fills the valley between the mountains is an old one. Huge, twisted lilac trunks, their branches draped lavishly in green moss, loom over them as they walk, stretching up to a tightly-woven canopy far above. What light filters down to the forest floor is dusky and cool. It doesn’t _quite_ resemble Dorin – the air is too dry here – but there’s a quality to the place that makes Plo smile, reminded of his childhood home.

His companions, all raised on an ocean planet, are regarding the forest with varying degrees of suspicion. Still, Norralus’s forests are hardly unique among the worlds where the war has taken them, and arguably friendlier than many; these trees aren’t made of razor-like crystal shards, or poison to the touch. All in all, it’s agreeable enough terrain, and they make good time.

The sun has been down for about an hour when they come across the Separatist patrol.

Wolffe spots them first, and holds up a fist, signalling the others to halt where they are. They crouch in the underbrush as they watch the small detachment of droids clank by.

“We could take ’em,” Boba whispers once the droids are out of earshot.

“We likely could, but when they didn’t report in, their superiors would know something was wrong.” Plo scans the forest around them. “We’ll need to camp for the night soon, anyway. Let’s do that now and let that patrol get some distance. I noticed a few caves in the rock face there; we could shelter in one of those for the night.”

A quick examination shows that several of the caves are too small or two shallow for their purposes, but Boost finds one that shows more promise: the entrance is tall enough for even Plo to walk through without stooping, and it seems to stretch back a decent ways into the dark.

Plo ignites his saber. “Wait here; I’ll check to –”

“ _Patrol Zeta Seven Seven reporting in!”_

That familiar high, metallic voice makes all five of them whip around. It’s coming from among the trees, disconcertingly nearby; Plo spots a flash of gold among the moss. It looks as though the droid patrol has returned.

Hastily, Plo waves the Pack inside the cave, out of sight. He only just manages to dive after them as the patrol marches fully into view, the lead droid speaking over his communicator.

“We’ve completed our patrol route. No rebel sightings to report, sir.”

The voice on the other end of the comm is just barely audible. _“Return to base.”_

“Roger roger.”

The Wolfpack stands stock still as the patrol passes the entrance to their cave. It seems to Plo that for a long while, none of them even breathe.

It isn’t until the patrol is well past and out of sight that they let out a collective sigh.

“That was awful close, General,” Boost says, and Plo feels a momentary prickle of wariness down the back of his neck at the words. Back on Dorin, it’s still believed that statements like that risk drawing the attention of the wind spirits – a superstition broadly shared by much of the galaxy, usually in the form of beliefs about “tempting fate”. Jedi, of course, are well aware that the Force doesn’t operate that way –

A deep growl from the darkness just behind him makes Plo’s blood run cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cloak I had in mind when writing the description of Plo’s outfit is the one he wears – appropriately enough – in “Lethal Trackdown”. The embroidery on it, while it is subtle, is pretty lush compared to the plainness of ordinary Jedi robes, so I figured it might have sentimental or cultural value or both. Then again, many of the things Plo wears – his vambraces, even his filter mask itself – are quite intricately decorated. Which suggests that either those decorations are important to Kel Dor culture… OR Kel Dor fashion is incredibly flamboyant, and the level of decoration Plo wears _is_ their version of plain. :)
> 
> While I don’t think there’s much in canon about Plo’s sibling(s), we can assume he has at least one, because he does have a canonical niece, Sha Koon. I went with a sister, who in my version is Sha’s mother.
> 
> I’m taking some liberties with Kel Dor mythology here. It is apparently canon that there’s a reason Kel Dor tend to have such short names: they believe that giving your child an especially long or pretty name might accidentally deceive the wind spirits into thinking that the child is one of them, and stealing them away. Here, I've extended that idea and mashed it up with the superstition, common across a lot of real-world cultures, that you risk of drawing the attention of malevolent or jealous supernatural forces if you flaunt your good fortune or talk about how lucky you are. (Of course, anyone who’s seen an action movie should also know that saying, “That was a close one,” almost guarantees that you’re about to go from the frying pan to the fire…)
> 
> Folks who follow me on Tumblr will probably remember my vocal appreciation of the way Plo's tunics keep getting shorter over the course of _Clone Wars_. I figure Wolffe would also be on board with this development. :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plo and company take shelter from a unit of Separatist battle droids, only to find out that their hideout isn't as abandoned as they first thought... and they may just have gone from the frying pan into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon-typical threat; nightmares.

Plo whirls around to find four luminous eyes hovering above him in the dark. The growl grows louder, until it seems to fill the entire world. Below the eyes, a scant few feet in front of Plo’s face, the illumination from his saber glints off a row of bared, dagger-like teeth, as long as he is tall. The mouth opens before him, and a hot carrion stench drifts over him as the creature rears up –

There’s a whirr to either side of blasters powering up in unison, and Plo cries, “Wait!”

He can _feel_ their fear, their desperate confusion at the order, but his Pack listens to him and holds.

Flicking off his lightsaber, Plo lifts his hand and reaches out through the Force. The creature’s thoughts are a maelstrom, terror and rage – _intruders-intruders-bad-stranger-hurt-protect nest –_

_We will not hurt you._ Plo recites it silently, over and over, pouring it like balm into the storm. _We will not hurt you. We will not hurt you._

The creature pauses, its jaws still poised to swoop down and swallow him whole. A thread of neon green saliva slowly stretches and snaps, dripping onto the cave floor, where it sizzles alarmingly as the venom scorches the stone beside Plo’s foot. _Stranger. Stranger bad, hurt offspring, hurt nest –_

_We will not hurt your offspring. We came here to hide from – predators. We only want to be safe. We will not hurt any of you._

… _predators?_ The creature’s head tilts slightly.

Plo pushes an image of the battle droids through the mental link. The reaction is immediate; the creature’s eyes slit, and she hisses ominously. _Bad noiseshiny._

_Yes. We are hiding from them. We don’t think they saw us._

At the hiss, Boba moves forward, stepping to Plo’s side to stare the creature down. Plo’s arm comes out automatically, covering him. The creature’s head snaps to follow the movement.

_Stranger offspring?_ Plo can sense the surprise in her thoughts.

_Yes. This is our youngling. You can see we want to protect him, just as you want to protect yours. We would not bring him here if we wanted to fight._ And _oh,_ the irony of that particular half-truth stings, but Plo pushes it aside, concentrating on broadcasting what he knows _is_ true: their peaceful intentions, their concern for Boba.

The animal’s mouth closes, those terrifying teeth hidden for now. She swoops down to get a closer look at Boba; Plo pushes the boy behind him, just in case. But he can feel the creature’s mind quieting slowly, as she blinks all four eyes at him.

_No hurt?_ she asks at last.

_That’s right. We won’t hurt you._

Plo turns his outstretched hand palm-up. After a pause that stretches out so long and taut it feels ready to break like a bowstring, the creature gently nudges her muzzle against his touch.

He can hear Sinker exhaling as if he’s been holding it in since they entered the cave, and Wolffe breathing, “You have got to be _kriffing_ kidding me,” as Plo starts to pet the creature’s nose.

Plo chuckles. “The Force connects all of us, Commander.” _We can stay?_ he asks silently.

The creature seems to consider. _Stranger stay while this one is here. Warmthlight come again, this one hunts; stranger must go._

_Yes. We will leave when warmthlight comes._ “She’s offered to let us stay the night in her cave, provided that we leave in the morning.”

“What makes you so sure she isn’t just saving us for a midnight snack?” Wolffe demands.

“I’m sure. To lie mind-to-mind like this is exceptionally difficult – the realm of Sith lords, not our host here.” Plo uses the very tips of his talons to – gently, so gently – scritch away a patch of dead skin from the creature’s scales. She makes a sound deep in her throat that might almost be mistaken for a purr.

“What’s a Sith lord?” Boba asks, even as he leans around Plo for a closer look at the creature.

“ _Dar-jetii,_ ” Plo answers in Mando’a. “Those who use the Dark Side of the Force to hurt and control. They’ve been little more than a legend for many centuries, but now that’s no longer true. Sadly, more than one Sith has been a Jedi who fell to the temptations of ambition or fear. Such as Count Dooku.” As long as he lives, Plo will remember pacing the arena on Geonosis, collecting his strength for a battle they had every reason to believe would be their last, and looking up to see one-time Master Dooku watching them from the royal box. The master of one of Plo’s dearest friends; a warm and fascinating presence in the Temple from as far back as Plo could remember, ready to watch his padawan’s padawan and the entire Council be torn apart in front of a jeering crowd.

And, Plo knows now, ready to use Boba as leverage to force his father into the fight that would kill him.

Plo stills his burst of anger, lest their new friend pick up on it, and smiles at Boba instead. “Would you like to meet her?”

Boba’s grin is like the sun suddenly breaking through the clouds. He eagerly steps forward, and Plo takes his hand in his own. While continuing to murmur reassurance through the link, he lifts Boba’s hand until it makes contact with the end of the animal’s snout. Boba draws in a soft breath. Then, as Plo lifts his hand away, the boy starts to reverently pet the creature’s shimmering hide.

The creature ducks her head and nuzzles against Boba, extending a blue-green tongue a few meters long to lick the side of his face. Her concern leaks through the link. _Dull scales,_ she notes.

“Hey!” Boba staggers a little under the force of the lick. He’s giggling.

“She’s worried you’re not feeling well. Your, ah – your scales aren’t shiny enough for a youngling. Apparently.”

“I can still tell when you’re laughing, _jetii._ ” But Boba is smiling as he says it. “What’s her name?”

“It’s… difficult to translate.” It seems that their friend’s species differentiate one another largely by scent, so the closest thing to a name Plo can understand is One Who Smells Like This.

“Can I call you Fangs?” Boba asks the creature. Pleased, Plo relays the question. He can sense that the whole question of names is a matter of deep indifference to her; however, when he manages to get across that Boba is admiring her teeth, Plo feels her mentally preen.

“I do believe that will be fine with her,” he tells Boba.

“Hi, Fangs,” Boba whispers, touching his forehead to her snout in a Keldabe kiss, and getting licked again for his trouble.

***

The Wolfpack ends up making camp at the mouth of the cave – out of sight of any further Separatist patrols, but with a decent view of anyone approaching, and comfortably far from Fangs’s nest and her children. Boba ends up sandwiched between Sinker and Boost so he can share their bedrolls. The sum of the day – the battle, the crash, too many narrow escapes – must have taken its toll, because no sooner does the boy lie down than he’s out like a light. Wolffe’s jacket is bunched under his head, and Plo’s cloak spread over him like a blanket.

“Go on, sir.” Wolffe nods towards the small pile of sleeping clones. “I’ll take first watch.”

“No, you get some rest. We neither of us slept very much last night, and as a rule I need it less.”

“Normally. But you’ve been doing an awful lot of...” Wolffe trails off, and waggles his fingers. “… today.”

Plo narrows his eyes in amusement as he copies Wolffe’s gesture. “A lot of Force bullshit?”

“You used that word, I didn’t.”

Plo lets out a short bark of laughter. “All right. But in four hours, _wake me._ I won’t have you sacrificing your own sleep for two nights running.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ease of the confirmation causes Plo to give Wolffe the side-eye. “I mean that. If I wake up and find you haven’t slept, I’ll knock you out and levitate your unconscious body to Beven.”

“Sounds easy _and_ inconspicuous, sir.”

Plo knocks his shoulder against Wolffe’s, and they exchange a wry smile before Plo spreads out his own bedroll, stretching out next to Boost. In the depths of the cave, Fangs lets out a low purr as she coils tightly around her hatchlings. It makes Plo smile, and then he’s slipping into sleep, too.

***

  
  


Wolffe doesn’t wake Plo.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

It’s perhaps an hour or two into the night when Plo bolts upright, startled awake by the awful sound of Boba crying out in pain.

The planet’s largest moon is up, and in its light, streaming through the cave mouth, Plo can see Wolffe’s silhouette as the commander spins around. Somewhere behind Plo, Fangs stirs in distress. (He sends a distracted burst of reassurance along the link, and she huffs and subsides back into sleep.)

Boba is sitting up with his hands fisted in Plo’s cloak, breaths heaving. His hair is damp with sweat, and his gaze is dark and terrified, fixed on some point only he can see.

Plo gets up to go to him, but Sinker is already there, reaching out to rub circles on the boy’s back. “All right, vod’ika?” he murmurs, his voice rough from sleep. Boba jumps a little at the touch, his eyes blinking back into focus.

“Yeah. I… yeah.” The boy presses the heel of his hand to his eyes. Runs a shaking hand through his hair, and then lets it fall. “I’m okay.”

“Was it the nightmare?”

“I don’t have nightmares,” Boba insists, crossing his arms and pulling a little away from Sinker.

“No shame if you do, we all have it –”

“I don’t.”

Silence follows, Sinker’s face twisted with worry as Boba refuses to look at him. Plo knows that expression from the inside. Hoping to lighten the tension a little (and curious, if he’s honest), Plo tilts his head and asks gently, “ _The_ nightmare?”

Sinker and Boost both jump, as if they forgot their general was even there in the dark. A fleeting look of panic passes between them, before Sinker bursts out, with badly-counterfeited confusion: “Sir?”

“You said _the_ nightmare, Sergeant. That we all have _it,_ not ‘them’.”

“I – I don’t –”

“No.” Wolffe speaks up quietly from the mouth of the cave. “ _We –_ ” and he gestures, a circle that encompasses himself, Sinker, Boost, and Boba, but leaves Plo outside – “all have it.”

The other troopers turn to look at their commander with twin expressions of dismay. Plo struggles to understand what secret they seem to think Wolffe has betrayed. “You… have the same nightmare?”

The cold light gilds the line of Wolffe’s cheek and jaw, casting shadows over his eyes. His expression is unreadable. “Clones only ever have the one, General.”

“I never knew that.” Plo shifts closer to his men. “May I ask…?”

For the first time, Wolffe hesitates, dropping his gaze to the ground in front of him. Something miserable flickers in Sinker’s eyes, and Boost has pulled in on himself, drawing away from his brothers; Plo didn’t mean to make them so upset, and is about to tell them to forget the question –

“It’s a mission.”

Wolffe’s voice is low, a little rough with the lack of sleep.

“We can’t – we don’t remember it very clearly when we wake up. Just enough detail to figure out the dream’s the same for all of us. You’re on an urgent mission. You’re falling behind. There’s an order you have to carry out, right now, or something terrible will happen – but it’s all...” He shrugs. “Cody says it’s like swimming in murky water for him. For me, it’s like a forest full of fog – can’t see properly, can’t move right. The target is up ahead, the one you need to eliminate, but you can’t make out who it is. And then… Well, you always wake up before you reach them, or before time runs out.”

“And all of your brothers have this same nightmare?”

“Always have.”

“Why?”

“Never knew, sir. The Kaminoans figured it was a hold-over from our template – from your dad,” Wolffe continues, nodding at Boba. “That maybe it was his nightmare and it just got imprinted on us.”

“But you don’t have other shared dreams.”

“And we don’t have our own, either. Kaminoans always said that was because we were just copies, in the end.” There’s a bitterness to Wolffe’s sharp smile. “Lacked real imagination.”

_Anger leads to hate,_ Plo reminds himself, to stop the whispers of the small part of him that would quite like five minutes alone with every so-called scientist responsible for putting that expression on Wolffe’s face.

“I’ve never had that dream, though,” Boba says thoughtfully. In contrast to his brothers, he seems to have calmed in the course of the discussion, unwinding from a tense ball he was in; the last shadows of whatever terror woke him are gone from his expression. He’s watching the others closely.

“Oh, that’s right, kiddo, you don’t _do_ nightmares,” drawls Wolffe.

“Yeah, but I used to – I mean, when I was a little kid, I did. Sometimes. And they were all different. Dreamed I was flying on the back of an aiwha once, and it threw me off, but I just fell and fell without hitting the water.” He frowns. “Or – I dreamed I was in one of those tubes, once, the ones they put the new _vode_ in. Or… anyway. I never had _that_ dream.”

Sinker’s expression has gone from miserable to shaken. “Wait. How is that possible?”

“You’re a clone,” Boost agrees. “How can you have different dreams?”

Boba shrugs. “I just do? My dad did, too; sometimes he’d tell me what he dreamed about. Don’t remember him talking about dreaming of a mission, though.”

The other clones are staring at Boba with… something that verges on _horror._ Plo feels a prickling within the Force around him. Strange enough that none of the _vode_ apparently dream, apart from this single nightmare; but such a whirl of emotions they all have around it, sadness and fear and shame – and they didn’t want Plo to know about it –

“Wolffe?” Plo chooses his words with care. “There’s… something more about this nightmare, isn’t there? Something you haven’t said.”

Boost’s discomfort increases even further, which Plo wasn’t sure was possible; Sinker casts a hunted look at Wolffe.

“You’re in it,” Wolffe says softly.

“ _I’m –_ ”

“Not just you. When we started being assigned Jedi generals… a lot of the men said their generals started cropping up in the dream. All at once.”

That prickling in the Force intensifies, like cold breath on the back of Plo’s neck. “What do we _do,_ in the dream?”

“Nothing bad – you’re just… there, just in the background. Out of reach, and it’s –” Wolffe breaks off with a frustrated _tch._ “Feels wrong. More wrong. Like it’s bending the dream out of shape, somehow.” He rubs at his eyes. “Sounds like a load of bantha shit when I say it out loud.”

“I can assure you, it doesn’t.” Plo slowly strokes the base of his mask. “When we return, I’d like to speak to certain members of the Council about this, in private. Would you be willing to do that?”

He can see as well as sense the flutter of panic that goes through the troopers. Sinker’s expression is guilty and frantic, and Boost is shaking his head at Wolffe urgently where he thinks Plo can’t see it. Wolffe asks, “You really think there’s something wrong with our heads, then, General?”

“No, not at all. Quite the opposite.” Plo reaches over to squeeze Sinker’s shoulder. “In my experience, dreams are not always simply dreams. It’s wise to pay attention to what they may have to say.”

“For Jedi, maybe,” Wolffe replies warily. “Not us.”

“Not only for Jedi. But nothing need be decided tonight. You all need to get some rest. Boba?” Plo adds gently.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you’ll be able to get back to sleep?”

Boba shrugs, then nods.

“Good. Join your brothers, Commander; I’ll take the next watch.”

Wolffe looks like he half-wants to protest, but his face is drawn and exhausted in the bone-white light, and he merely nods instead. As he brushes past, Plo touches his arm.

“Wolffe. Whatever this dream may mean, or not, it doesn’t reflect poorly on _you_ or the Pack _._ None of us will think the worse of you.”

For the first time tonight, relief flares in Wolffe’s eyes. Plo is unprepared for his commander to sway forward and – just as Plo worries that Wolffe is genuinely about to collapse – touch his forehead softly to Plo’s. It’s the briefest contact, and then Wolffe has turned away to drop heavily onto Plo’s abandoned bedroll.

Plo takes up position at the mouth of the cave, watching the shadows at the edges of the moonlight woods beyond. He thinks about forests full of fog – about his Pack clawing their way through choking mists while he stands just out of reach – for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shared nightmare described here is my expansion of a reference from the _Clone Wars_ arc where Fives discovers the control chips in the clones' brains. Both Fives and Tup talk about having incessant nightmares and "the mission in our dreams", which is heavily implied to be a foreshadowing of Order 66.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolfpack goes undercover in the rebel city of Beven. But when Wolffe gets in trouble, Plo and Boba find themselves having to improvise... and Plo finds out a bit more about what Jango Fett taught his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings for this chapter (first one in a while, huh? :)). Verrrry slight suggestiveness, but nothing remotely explicit.

“You can always smell a port city before you can see it.” Wolffe punctuates the statement with a theatrical inhale, and makes a face. “Didn’t think I’d ever miss the stink of rhydonium and street food.”

Plo comes to stand on the ridge beside him, gazing down at their goal below. For him, it isn’t the smell (somewhat dampened by his filter mask) that reaches him first, or even the hubbub of engines and construction and voices yelling in a two dozen different languages. It’s the rush of _presence_ through the Force – the lives and the tangled emotions of a million beings, lapping at his walls like a stormy sea. It’s enough to make him momentarily reel.

He takes a breath, lets the roil of mental voices fall away.

“Sergeant,” he says, as Sinker joins them, Boost and Boba in tow. “Do you both have all you need for your cover?”

“Think so, sir. Boost and I’ve been quizzing each other on those docs you gave us about fuel cell importing.” He breaks into a rare grin. “Go on, General – ask me the going rate for a second-hand S-class impact shifter.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Plo replies with a smile. Their disguise as a group of merchants isn’t likely to be questioned to that degree of detail, but trust Sinker to ensure they’ve done all the prep and then some. With any luck, the façade of scouting Beven as a potential new market should give them plenty of leeway to ask all kinds of nosy questions. “You and Boost will start on the north side of the central marketplace. Begin by just making conversation, and keep your ears open. Remember, don’t be afraid to take your time. At this stage, it’s better to move slowly than to attract the wrong sort of attention. Wolffe and Boba, we’ll take the south side. Boba, give me your blaster, please.”

“What?” Boba clutches the gun a little tighter.

“Norralus is not technically at war, in spite of everything. A handful of merchants armed for their own protection will pass without comment, but a child with a blaster would be… unusual.”

The look Boba is giving him is as much confused as it is sceptical. It occurs to Plo – not for the first time, and not without a flash of pain – that Boba has absolutely no context for how a child trained for war _could_ be unusual.

Plo holds out his hand. For a tense moment, Boba just stares; then, with glacial slowness, he places the blaster in Plo’s palm. Another moment, and then Boba lets go.

“Thank you,” Plo says quietly.

“I can keep the knife though, right?”

“Keep it out of sight, then yes.” Plo sticks the blaster in his own belt.

“So, what _am_ I supposed to do?”

“Just stay close, and try to behave casually. Remember that you’re just being dragged along on a family business trip, touring one of a thousand trading posts you would have seen in your life; this is nothing new to you. Perhaps you’re even a bit bored -”

“I know how to pretend to be a kid,” Boba protests, sticking his chin out in that way that reminds Plo so much of Wolffe. “I’ve had practice.”

Strange, how the most offhanded words can go through Plo’s chest like a blade.

“Just stay close,” he repeats. “And keep your eyes and ears open.” He draws the hood of his cloak a little lower, and, peering out from its shadow, fixes them each with his gaze in turn. “May the Force be with you, my Pack.”

***

“Exquisite.”

Plo lets his claws trail very, very carefully over the delicate copper chains. At the end of each is a slender golden pipe, each notched to give a slightly different pitch when the wind whistles through them; there are several cunningly-fashioned charms dangling among them, including a glass bird that’s quite beautiful, but those are merely flourishes. The true beauty is in the craftsmanship of the wind chime itself. He can already imagine its music.

“Do you know,” he tells the stallholder – a sharp-eyed older woman named Len, who he senses has begun to soften towards him over the last few minutes’ worth of conversation – “that on my homeworld, many still believe that chimes such as these can protect a home from the wind spirits?”

“Really! How’s that, then?”

“The story goes that on wild nights, the spirits may tear through the house, smashing everything and delighting in the sound of the destruction. But if the family hangs a wind chime, the spirit will become enchanted by the music it can make, and spend all night singing through the chime instead.” Plo ventures to try out the sound for himself, flicking the metal of his claw sheath against one of the pipes. It rings out a long, true note. “Perhaps wind spirits only want to be heard, like all of us.”

A faint shadow crosses Len’s expression. “Ain’t that the truth.” The next moment, she’s all smiles once more, even if they don’t quite reach her eyes. “So, does that mean you’ll be wanting one to keep the wind spirits away? They make lovely gifts for the family back home.”

“Indeed. I...” Plo trails off, his attention caught. Several chimes over from the one he’s been examining, there’s another set of pipes, not quite as lavishly decorated, in white and silver. A few obsidian beads, polished to such a sheen that it’s like looking out a ship’s portal into the black of space, dangle from the chains of this wind chime; and in the centre –

“Is that a loth-wolf?” Plo balances the little charm on the flat of his claw to examine it.

“Oh, yes! They’re popular on decorations lately. Guess your people aren’t the only one who like the idea of a little protection...” Len drops her voice to a barely audible murmur. “’Specially with Seppies on our doorstep, these days.”

“I had noticed,” Plo replies in a low voice. “Even here. My partners and I came to Beven because we thought it was still a free city, but...”

“It is, make no mistake. Those damn carrion birds might be hovering around on the outskirts, sending their droids through the forests, but there’s no way they’re getting a foothold here. Not without a damn fight.” Len shuts her mouth abruptly, eyes darting around the marketplace; then that piercing gaze returns to rake Plo up and down.

He smiles in exchange. “I’m glad to hear it.” Raising his voice, he adds, “These two, please – and if you could wrap the larger as a gift. I’m sure my sister will appreciate such stunning craftsmanship.”

The tiniest hint of a pleased smile sneaks across Len’s lips, seemingly against her will, as she begins to wrap the golden bird chime and the silver wolf chime in delicate layers of flimsi. “Well, if she does, send her to my holonet stall. I could do a lot worse than impress someone from a planet that sounds like it gets through an awful lot of wind chimes.”

“Mmmm. Sadly, I don’t think that shipping an order would be possible; Dorin is in Republic space, and with Separatist forces holding so much of Norralus...” Plo hums to himself as he bends to examine the other examples of Len’s work displayed on the counter.

“Kriffing Seppies – pardon my language.” Len pulls the ribbon she’s tying so tight it almost tears, and huffs as she slaps her hand against the counter. “Can’t be driven off too soon for my liking.”

As she hands him the chimes – one in a cheerful outer wrapping tied with the salvaged ribbon, the other simply cushioned in a few folds of flimsi for the journey – Plo briefly rests his hand on hers. “We are in agreement on that. I’d even be happy to lend a hand doing it.” At the same moment, he drops his walls, lets the surface of her thoughts brush against his.

Suspicion hits him first, mixed with a kind of wary hope – and a fierce concern, an urge to protect. There’s nothing abstract about that impulse. The rebels here in Beven are people Len knows, he’s sure; probably known to many of the locals. Whether she’s actually working with them or not, much less specific questions like _where is their base_ and _how do we contact them,_ aren’t questions Plo can answer from such a superficial skim, and he’s not about to invade Len’s mind to push for them. Luckily, there are more direct ways.

He breaks the contact, and smiles. “Thank you. If and when things do change, I promise that I’ll sing your work’s praises across Dorin.” And he places the packages slowly into a pouch at his side, making sure that in doing so, he pulls back his cloak enough that Len – and only Len – can glimpse the lightsaber underneath.

Len’s eyes narrow, and she’s opening her mouth to say something when Plo feels a tug on his sleeve.

He glances down, surprised, to find Boba, whom he last saw wandering over to browse a bookseller’s a few stalls down. Boba’s eyes are wide and insistent.

Plo bows quickly to Len, and turns back to Boba. “What is –”

Boba points across the square.

Even in his civilian garb, Wolffe is easy to spot. Partly because he cuts a striking figure, but mostly because he’s currently got a strapping stall-holder – at least a head taller than Wolffe and twice his girth – looming over him and shaking a finger directly in Wolffe’s face. Plo can’t quite make out what’s being said, but it seems to have Wolffe rattled. He’s got both hands up in a pacifying gesture, but his feet are dug in, and his stance is poised to lunge for the man’s throat if it comes to it. Worse, it looks like they’re starting to attract attention from a few of the merchants and bystanders around them.

Plo barely has time to take in the situation before he feels himself being propelled across the square; Boba has a firm hold of his hand and is pulling him along as if Plo weren’t easily twice his height. Bemused, Plo lets himself be dragged.

As they get closer, he can hear the merchant growling, “– ask you again, what _business_ is it of yours, huh? You ask some pretty funny questions, pal; if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were some kinda Seppie –”

“ _Buiiiiiiir,_ ” Boba whines loudly as he marches them right up to Wolffe. “Are you finished yet? Only Dad says we can’t go get lunch until you’re done, and I’m _huuuuuungryyyy._ ”

The merchant drops his hand, apparently taken aback by having his tirade interrupted mid-flow by this domestic scene. And Plo clocks what Boba has in mind. “Our son definitely has your lack of patience, _cyare,_ ” he says, wrapping a hand around the back of Wolffe’s neck and letting his claw-tips toy with the ends of those close-shorn curls. _Play along,_ he silently urges.

Turning to the stallholder, Plo continues, “I hope my husband hasn’t been bothering you with his endless questions. He’s like this on every world we visit, if you can believe it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Plo catches Wolffe’s expression, and winces. The man looks as though he’s been punched in the stomach. For a long, dangerous second, he just stares at Plo.

Then, just as Plo is deciding this was a mistake, he feels hot breath against his neck. A muscular arm wraps around his waist, pulling him close, and Wolffe positively _purrs_ in his ear, “Aww, _cyar’ika,_ I thought my curiosity was what you loved about me.”

Act or not, Plo shivers.

The stallholder is glancing from one of them to the other, a small furrow appearing between his brows. Plo tries to return his gaze as mildly as possible, even though Wolffe is nuzzling his throat, now, and the soft, heated slip of his skin against Plo’s is maddeningly distracting.

“Eh… no harm done,” the merchant says, slowly. “Just – watch who you’re asking about that stuff. A stranger comes in and starts talking about rebels, folks are gonna wonder why, you know?”

“Believe me, sir, I tend to wonder why mys-” At that moment, Wolffe tilts his head and brushes a kiss just below Plo’s ear, and Plo’s words abruptly give way to a low, needy sound that feels like it was wrenched out of his soul.

_Well, at least no one can say we aren’t convincing,_ he thinks giddily.

“My husband’s right,” Wolffe tells the merchant. “I always ask too many questions. Really didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

“He just wants so much to understand how everything works,” Plo puts in. “Whether it’s local politics or the native cuisine.” He trails his claw-tips affectionately over Wolffe’s scalp and down the back of his neck.

Wolffe gasps, and the hand that had been resting on Plo’s hip suddenly clutches his other arm, as Wolffe shakes his head minutely. Startled, Plo moves his hand back to safer territory, settling it on his commander’s shoulder instead.

Boba, meanwhile, perhaps taking the mention of native cuisine as a cue, slips his hand out of Plo’s and darts towards the man’s stall, diverting his attention. “Whoa, hey! Is that candy? What kind of candy is it? Do you make all of these?”

“I – yeah, I make them all myself.” The merchant turns back to Wolffe and Plo, and something around his eyes has softened. “Heh. Cute kid you’ve got there. I’ve got two myself around that age – how old’s he?”

“I’m eleven,” calls Boba from where he’s up on tip-toe, trying to peer into a large wooden vat. “Hey, what are these ones? What’s the purple stuff?”

“I told you he takes after you,” Plo says to Wolffe for the merchant’s benefit, and gets a sardonic look in return that’s so completely _Wolffe_ that – for a breathless moment – it’s hard to untangle the unimpressed commander being teased by his general from the husband entering an old, fond quarrel with his beloved, the real from the illusion.

The stallholder actually cracks a smile at that. Then he leans closer. “Hey, I’m sorry I popped off at you. Things have been… tense, in the market lately.”

Plo nods sympathetically. “Let’s forget all about it. We can focus on more pleasant things, like buying some of your fine sweets.” To Boba, he calls over, “What would you like, _ad’ika_?” and pretends he doesn’t see the boy freeze, then replace the handful of sweets he’d been halfway to putting in his pocket.

The merchant bustles over to help them. “Those ones are meiloorun fondant,” he says proudly “and over here’s a fresh batch of chocolate-covered camby berries here, very popular...” Boba raises his eyebrows at Plo.

Plo laughs indulgently. “As many as you’d like. It’s been a long morning.” It’s no less than the truth, he reflects, managing not to startle as he feels Wolffe slip his gloved hand casually into his own.

They stay like that, hand in hand, while Boba – almost shy, now that he’s been given actual permission – eventually picks out a few flavours of candy. Plo insists on large quantities of each, and adds several more; and the merchant, looking more pleased by the moment, tops it off with a few sweets of a new variety he’s experimenting with, “on the house”. Wolffe doesn’t even drop Plo’s hand as they walk away, strolling through the market to the soft sounds of Boba happily shovelling candy into his mouth.

Wolffe leans close, like a husband whispering sweet nothings, but instead mutters sheepishly, “Sorry about that, sir. Guess I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.”

“It’s no matter, my Wolffe. I doubt it was your fault; suspicions are running high in Beven lately, it seems. And besides,” Plo adds, running his thumb over the backs of Wolffe’s knuckles, “Boba’s addition fleshes out our cover story nicely, does it not?”

He meant it as a friendly tease to lighten the mood, but Wolffe goes red from neck to hairline. Luckily, Boba, who’s been walking a little bit ahead, provides a distraction by piping up, “Not to mention it saved your collective _shebs_ back there.”

Plo reaches out with his free hand to gently card through the boy’s hair. “You did very well, and we owe you our thanks. Is that what you meant by having practice pretending?”

“Yeah. You always look more harmless, or more like you belong somewhere, if you’ve got some kid running up to you and going, ‘hey _Daaaad_...’” Boba pauses, the sack of candy momentarily forgotten in his hand. His gaze darts hesitantly up to Wolffe’s. Plo can picture it so clearly. Boba, even younger than he is now: hiding around the corner in a marketplace just like this one, those huge dark eyes watchful, until some shift in body language tips him off and he puts on his carefree child mask and dashes across to – to a man who would have looked so like Wolffe that the familiarity must ache.

Wolffe seems to have realised the same thing, because there’s a flicker of echoing pain in his expression as he looks gravely down at Boba. After a long moment, Wolffe reaches out towards the child…

… and snags a piece of candy from the bag, popping it into his mouth.

Boba’s gasp of mock outrage – which does a poor job of covering up his laughter – and Wolffe’s unrepentant grin in response do something strange to Plo’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate-covered camby berries canonically resemble chocolate-covered strawberries - just way more purple - and are a favourite of Ewoks. :)
> 
> While the Kel Dor mythology around wind spirits is canonical (as previously discussed), the wind chimes are my own addition, based VERY loosely on several Earth traditions around building spirit houses next to actual houses. Just as you build the spirits a house so they don't inhabit yours, I reasoned you could give the wind spirits something to toss around and play with so they didn't do that to your stuff.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Gai bal manda_ is the Mandalorian term for an adoption ceremony. It literally translates to "name and soul".
> 
> And speaking of Mando'a, I decided I should stick in a glossary of the words I use, for reference - though hopefully these will all be clear from context:
> 
>  _ad’ika_ – little one, child  
>  _buir_ \- father/mother/parent  
>  _cyare_ \- dear, beloved  
>  _cyar'ika_ \- darling, sweetheart (affectionate diminutive of the above)  
>  _demagolka_ – monster, war criminal  
>  _di'kut_ \- idiot  
>  _dini'la_ \- insane  
>  _haat, ijaa, haa’it_ \- literally "truth, honour, vision"; a phrase used to seal a pact  
>  _jetii_ – Jedi  
>  _k’oyacyi_ – courage, hang in there, come back safe; literally means “stay alive”  
>  _mir'sheb_ \- smartass  
>  _sha'kajir_ \- truce; literally "over a table", as in sharing a meal  
>  _shebs_ \- ass  
>  _udesii_ – easy, take it easy  
>  _vod_ – brother/sister/sibling  
>  _vode_ – brothers; can be used to refer to the clone troopers of the GAR as a whole  
>  _vod’ika_ – little brother


End file.
